Rabbit at Rest

John Updike, one of the greatest (and certainly most prolific) American writers of the past century, passed away today at age 76.  I first encountered Updike's writing in high school, critiquing (such as it was) Rabbit, Run and one of his short stories.  I can't go so far as to say that he was a life-changing writer, but I always appreciated his ability, like so many great writers, to transition between fiction and non-fiction writing.  One of my favorite non-fiction essays, and one of his best-known, is his essay on Ted Williams' last game at Fenway Park, Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu:

Like a feather caught in a vortex, Williams ran around the square of bases at the center of our beseeching screaming. He ran as he always ran out home runs - hurriedly, unsmiling, head down, as if our praise were a storm of rain to get out of. He didn't tip his cap. Though we thumped, wept, and chanted ''We want Ted'' for minutes after he hid in the dugout, he did not come back. Our noise for some seconds passed beyond excitement into a kind of immense open anguish, a wailing, a cry to be saved. But immortality is nontransferable. The papers said that the other players, and even the umpires on the field, begged him to come out and acknowledge us in some way, but he refused. Gods do not answer letters.

 He will be missed.