tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9878002.post6319404606772398145..comments2024-03-29T01:01:11.212-05:00Comments on PERPETUAL FOLLY: The New Yorker: "The Full Glass" by John UpdikeUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9878002.post-28538919730644495082008-06-05T16:54:00.000-05:002008-06-05T16:54:00.000-05:00sjwoo, you make a good pointsjwoo, you make a good pointAnonymoushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05886890881221225553noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9878002.post-56179818748415364422008-06-05T16:50:00.000-05:002008-06-05T16:50:00.000-05:00Just read this at the airport and loved it. I enj...Just read this at the airport and loved it. I enjoyed Updike's last one, "Outage," too, though like you say here, this one has no real structure. I've been reading Updike's stories in TNY for years, and I must say, now that he's in the twilight of his years, I feel a certain assuredness whenever he writes like this, about an old person's life, looking back at his youth. Both Updike and Munro currently have this market cornered in TNY, and as readers, I think we're very fortune to have two fine writers sharing their thoughts with us.<BR/><BR/>I'm also not too fond of seeing the same familiar names in TNY, but neither Updike nor Munro are gonna be around for too much longer, so it's okay. Let them have their say.AltSunghttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02091271275548692502noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9878002.post-88204894044556119202008-06-03T15:50:00.000-05:002008-06-03T15:50:00.000-05:00I agree with both of you: the story held me senten...I agree with both of you: the story held me sentence by sentence. I loved the last paragraph:<BR/><BR/>The shaving mirror hangs in front of a window overlooking the sea. The sea is always full, flat as a floor. Or almost: there is a delicate planetary bulge in it, supporting a few shadowy freighters and cruise ships making their motionless way out of Boston Harbor. At night, the horizon springs a rim of lights—more, it seems, every year. Winking airplanes from the corners of the earth descend on a slant, a curved groove in the air, toward the unseen airport in East Boston. My life-prolonging pills cupped in my left hand, I lift the glass, its water sweetened by its brief wait on the marble sink-top. If I can read this strange old guy’s mind aright, he’s drinking a toast to the visible world, his impending disappearance from it be damned.Cezarija Abartishttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12933555234185154286noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9878002.post-17855295445847311592008-05-26T12:37:00.000-05:002008-05-26T12:37:00.000-05:00I liked it, too. I didn't want to, because I'm sic...I liked it, too. I didn't want to, because I'm sick of seeing the same bylines over and over in The New Yorker, but I did. It held me for the whole read, engagingly.Mary Akershttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05190983234403757377noreply@blogger.com