Bech at Bay is the last in the trilogy of novels
about Henry Bech, John Updike’s Jewish alter-ego. It lacks some of the prose sparkle of the
last two Bech books, and as such, does not quite have the head of steam
necessary to fulfill even Updike’s modest goals.
One is to make us laugh, which he accomplishes sometimes but not nearly enough for our effort and the second is to make observations about art,
life, and creativity, which he does in abundance, stretching the believability
of the plot and the characters to the breaking point.
In the end, I have great ambivalence about the Beck
books, and Updike generally. What am I
supposed to think of him? There is something
slight about these books, even when they are decked out as serious observations
of literature and life. Even the comedy
is thin and a bit crude, lacking any essential punch. And that is what I want in my fiction. A punch. There are enough lulling, non-essential books
and other forms of entertainment out there.
I want my fiction to change my world.
The Beck series does not come close to this at all.
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