Catalogue


The early stories, 1953-1975 /
John Updike.
edition
1st ed.
imprint
New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2003.
description
xv, 838 p.
ISBN
1400040728
format(s)
Book
Holdings
More Details
author
imprint
New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2003.
isbn
1400040728
catalogue key
5024317
A Look Inside
Awards
This item was nominated for the following awards:
Excerpts
Excerpt from Book
You'll Never Know, Dear, How Much I Love You Carnival! In the vacant lot behind the old ice plant! Trucks have been unloading all afternoon; the WhirloGig has been unfolded like a giant umbrella, they assembled the baby Ferris wheel with an Erector Set. Twice the trucks got stuck in the mud. Straw has been strewn everywhere. They put up a stage and strung lights. Now, now, gather your pennies; supper is over and an hour of light is left in the long summer day. See, Sammy Hunnenhauser is running; Gloria Gring and her gang have been there all afternoon, they never go home, oh hurry, let me go; how awful it is to have parents that are poor, and slow, and sad! Fifty cents. The most Ben could beg. A nickel for every year of his life. It feels like plenty. Over the roof of crazy Mrs. Moffert's house, the Ferris wheel tints the air with pink, and the rim of this pink mixes in his excitement with the great notched rim of the coin sweating in his hand. This house, then this house, and past the ice plant, and he will be there. Already the rest of the world is there, he is the last, hurrying, hurrying, the balloon is about to take off, the Ferris wheel is lifting; only he will be left behind, on empty darkening streets. Then there, what to buy? There are not so many people here. Grownups carrying babies mosey glassily on the straw walks. All the booth people, not really Gypsies, stare at him, and beckon weakly. It hurts him to ignore the man with the three old softballs, and the old cripple at the merry-go-round, and the fat lady with her plaster Marys, and the skeleton suspended behind a fountain of popcorn. He feels his walking past them as pain. He wishes there were more people here; he feels a fool. All of this machinery assembled to extract from him his pathetic fifty cents. He watches at a distance a thickset man in earnestly rolled-up shirtsleeves twirl a great tinselled wheel with a rubber tongue that patters slower and slower on a circle of nails until it stops between two, and the number there wins. Only a sailor and two boys in yellow silk high-school athletic jackets play. None win. The thick tattooed arm below the rolled-up shirtsleeve carefully sweeps their nickels from a long board divided and numbered as if for hopscotch. The high-school boys, with sideburns and spotty whiskers on their bright-pink jaws, put down nickels again leadenly, and this time the man spinning the wheel shouts when it stops, seems more joyful than they, and reaches into his deep apron pocket and pours before them, without counting, a perfect little slipping stack of nickels. Their gums showing as if at a dirty joke, the two boys turnthe shimmer on their backs darts and shifts in cool z'sand walk away, while the man is shouting, "Hey, uh winneh. Hey, uh winneh, evvybody wins." His board is bare, and as his mouth continues to form the loud words his eyes lock Ben into a stare of heartbreaking brown blankness that seems to elucidate with paralyzing clarity Ben's state: his dungarees, his fifty cents, his ten years, his position in space, and above the particulars the immense tinted pity, the waste, of being at one little place instead of everywhere, at any time. Then the man looks away, and twirls the wheel for his own amusement. The fifty-cent piece feels huge to Ben's fingers, a wide oppressive rigidity that must be broken, shattered into twinkling fragments, to merge in the tinsel and splinters of strewn straw. He buys, at the first stand he strikes, a cone of cotton candy, and receives, with the furry pink pasty uncoiling thing, a quarter, a dime, and a nickel: three coins, tripling his wealth. Now people multiply, crowd in from the houses of the town, which stand beyond the lot on all sides in black forbidding silhouettes like the teeth of a saw. The lights go on; the faces of the houses flee. There is nothing in the l
First Chapter
You’ll Never Know, Dear, How Much I Love You

Carnival! In the vacant lot behind the old ice plant! Trucks have been unloading all afternoon; the WhirloGig has been unfolded like a giant umbrella, they assembled the baby Ferris wheel with an Erector Set. Twice the trucks got stuck in the mud. Straw has been strewn everywhere. They put up a stage and strung lights. Now, now, gather your pennies; supper is over and an hour of light is left in the long summer day. See, Sammy Hunnenhauser is running; Gloria Gring and her gang have been there all afternoon, they never go home, oh hurry, let me go; how awful it is to have parents that are poor, and slow, and sad!

Fifty cents. The most Ben could beg. A nickel for every year of his life. It feels like plenty. Over the roof of crazy Mrs. Moffert’s house, the Ferris wheel tints the air with pink, and the rim of this pink mixes in his excitement with the great notched rim of the coin sweating in his hand. This house, then this house, and past the ice plant, and he will be there. Already the rest of the world is there, he is the last, hurrying, hurrying, the balloon is about to take off, the Ferris wheel is lifting; only he will be left behind, on empty darkening streets.

Then there, what to buy? There are not so many people here. Grownups carrying babies mosey glassily on the straw walks. All the booth people, not really Gypsies, stare at him, and beckon weakly. It hurts him to ignore the man with the three old softballs, and the old cripple at the merry-go-round, and the fat lady with her plaster Marys, and the skeleton suspended behind a fountain of popcorn. He feels his walking past them as pain. He wishes there were more people here; he feels a fool. All of this machinery assembled to extract from him his pathetic fifty cents. He watches at a distance a thickset man in earnestly rolled-up shirtsleeves twirl a great tinselled wheel with a rubber tongue that patters slower and slower on a circle of nails until it stops between two, and the number there wins. Only a sailor and two boys in yellow silk high-school athletic jackets play. None win. The thick tattooed arm below the rolled-up shirtsleeve carefully sweeps their nickels from a long board divided and numbered as if for hopscotch. The high-school boys, with sideburns and spotty whiskers on their bright-pink jaws, put down nickels again leadenly, and this time the man spinning the wheel shouts when it stops, seems more joyful than they, and reaches into his deep apron pocket and pours before them, without counting, a perfect little slipping stack of nickels. Their gums showing as if at a dirty joke, the two boys turn—the shimmer on their backs darts and shifts in cool z’s—and walk away, while the man is shouting, “Hey, uh winneh. Hey, uh winneh, evvybody wins.” His board is bare, and as his mouth continues to form the loud words his eyes lock Ben into a stare of heartbreaking brown blankness that seems to elucidate with paralyzing clarity Ben’s state: his dungarees, his fifty cents, his ten years, his position in space, and above the particulars the immense tinted pity, the waste, of being at one little place instead of everywhere, at any time. Then the man looks away, and twirls the wheel for his own amusement.

The fifty-cent piece feels huge to Ben’s fingers, a wide oppressive rigidity that must be broken, shattered into twinkling fragments, to merge in the tinsel and splinters of strewn straw. He buys, at the first stand he strikes, a cone of cotton candy, and receives, with the furry pink pasty uncoiling thing, a quarter, a dime, and a nickel: three coins, tripling his wealth.

Now people multiply, crowd in from the houses of the town, which stand beyond the lot on all sides in black forbidding silhouettes like the teeth of a saw. The lights go on; the faces of the houses flee. There is nothing in the lot but light, and at its core, on the stage, three girls wearing white cowboy hats and white spangled skirts and white boots appear, and a man also in white and bearing a white guitar strung with gold. The legs around Ben crush him toward the stage; the smell of mud mingles with the bright sight there. One of the girls coughs into the microphone and twists its neck, so a sharp whine pierces from the loudspeakers and cuts a great crescent through the crowd, leaving silence as harvest. The girls sing, toe-tapping gingerly: “The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms.” The spangles on their swishing skirts spring prickles like tears in Ben’s eyes. The three voices sob, catch, twang, distend his heart like a rubber band at the highest pitch of their plaint. “—I was mistaken, and I hung my head, a-and cried.” And then the unbearable rising sugar of the chorus that makes his scalp so tight he fears his head will burst from sweet fullness.

The girls go on to sing other songs, less good, and then they give way to a thin old man in suspenders and huge pants he keeps snapping and looking down and whooping into. He tells horrible jokes that make the nice fat ladies standing around Ben—nice fat factory and dust-mop women that make him feel protected—shake with laughter. He fears their quaking, feels threatened from beneath, as if there is a treacherous stratum under this mud and straw. He wanders away, to let the words of “You Are My Sunshine” revolve in his head. “Please don’t take my sunshine away.” Only the money in his pocket weighs him; get rid of it, and he will sail away like a dandelion seed.

He goes to the booth where the wheel is turning, and puts his nickel on the board in a square marked 7, and loses it.

He puts the dime there, and it too is taken away.

Squeezed, almost hidden, between the crusty trousered haunches of two adults, he puts down his quarter, as they do, on the inner edge, to be changed. The tattooed man comes along, picking up the quarters and pouring, with his wonderfully automatic fingers, the little slipping stacks of five nickels; Ben holds his breath, and to his horror feels his low face catch in the corner of the man’s absent-minded eyes. The thick solemn body snags in its smooth progress, and Ben’s five nickels are raggedly spaced. Between the second and third there is a gap. A blush cakes Ben’s cheeks; his gray-knuckled fingers, as they push out a nickel, are trembling sideways at each other. But the man goes back, and spins the wheel, and Ben loses three nickels one after another. The twittering wheel is a moon-faced god; but Ben feels humanity clouding the space between him and it, which should be unobstructed. When the tattooed arm—a blue fish, an anchor, the queer word peace—comes to sweep in his nickels, he feels the stippled skin breathing thought, and lowers his head against the expected fall of words. Nothing is said, the man moves on, returns to the wheel; but Ben feels puzzled pressure radiating from him, and the pointed eyes of a man in a suit with chalk stripes who has come to stand at the far side of the stand intersect this expanding circle, and Ben, hurrying to pour his money down a narrowing crack, puts down his last two nickels, still on 7.

The rubber tongue leaps into pattering and as the wheel whirls the tattooed man leans backward to hear the one in chalk stripes talk; this one’s tongue patters silently but a tiny motion of his smooth hand, simultaneous with a sideways stab of his eyes, is toward Ben.

The rubber tongue slows, flops, stops at 7—no, 8. He lost, and can leave. The floor of his stomach lifts queerly. “Hey, kid.” The man with terrible spoiled arms comes over. Ben feels that no matter how fast he would run those arms would stretch and snare him.

“Huh?”

“How old are you, kid?”

“Ten.”

“Whatsamatta with ya, ya daddy rich?”

A titter moves stiffly among the immense adult heads all around. Ben understands the familiar role, that he has undergone a hundred times with teachers and older boys, of being a comic prop. He understands everything, and wants to explain that he knows his eyes are moist and his cheeks red but that it’s because of joy, freedom, not because of losing. But this would be too many words; even the one-word answer “No” sticks to the roof of his mouth and comes loose with a faint tearing noise.

“Here.” With his exciting expert touch, the tattooed man flicks Ben’s two coins back across the painted number. Then he digs into his pocket. He comes up with the usual little stack of five, drops four, but holds the fifth delicately between the tips of two fingers and a thumb, hesitates so that Ben can reread peace in blue above his wrist, and then flips the fifth nickel up into his palm and thence down with a plunge into his dirty sagging apron pouch.

“Now move away from the board, kid, move away. Don’t come back.”

Ben fumbles the coins into his hands and pushes away, his eyes screwed to the sharp edge of painted wood, and he shoulders blindly backward through the legs. Yet all the time, in the midst of the heat and water welling up from springs all over his body, he is figuring, and calculates he’s been gypped. Forty: he had the quarter and dime and nickel, and they gave him back only six nickels: thirty. The injustice. They pretend he’s too little to lose and then keep a dime. The waste. The lost dime seems a tiny hole through which everything in existence is draining. As he moves away, his wet knees jarring, trying to hide forever from every sailor and fat woman and high-schooler who witnessed his disgrace, the six nickels make a knobbed weight bumping his thigh through his pocket. The spangles, the splinters of straw and strings of light, the sawtooth peaks of houses showing behind the heads of grown-ups moving above the scent of grassy mud are hung like the needles of a Christmas tree with the transparent, tinted globes confusing his eyelashes.

Thus the world, like a jaded coquette, spurns our attempts to give ourselves to her wholly.
Full Text Reviews
Appeared in Library Journal on 2003-08-01:
All of Updike's retrospective collections are huge, as if nothing could be discarded, and this one is no exception. The title is somewhat misleading. "Early stories" suggests juvenilia or apprentice work, but Updike's famously elegant and evocative prose style apparently emerged full blown with his first New Yorker publication. A more accurate title would be Classic Updike. Most of Updike's best-known stories are here, including "Pigeon Feathers," "The Family Meadow," "Separating," and "The Witnesses." The book opens with the Pennsylvania-based Olinger stories, moves through the anguished Maples saga of marital dysfunction in suburban Tarbox, and concludes with studies of the single life, including "The Bulgarian Poetess," featuring Updike's alter ego, Henry Bech. Stories that originally aimed at slice-of-life immediacy now appear as exquisite genre paintings of a lost America, thanks in part to Updike's strong visual sense. This wonderful collection is arguably the best single-volume introduction to Updike's work available. Highly recommended for all fiction collections. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 7/03.]-Edward B. St. John, Loyola Law Sch. Lib., Los Angeles (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Reviews
Review Quotes
"Classic gems . . . These stories, like Mr. Updike's finest novels . . . preserve a time and a place through the sorcery of words."- The New York Times "[Updike is] akin to Coleridge and Shelley, only with an American twist. One story at a time, he [reminds] Americans that in spite of life's largesse, things fail; one sentence at a time, he reveals that through the small details, it can be sublime."- The Denver Post "Updike's artistry-normally glimpsed in sections, like a person through window slats-is wholly and deeply seen. . . . One reads through the plenitude with delight, expectation, and at all times gratitude."- The Atlantic Monthly
This item was reviewed in:
Library Journal, July 2003
Library Journal, August 2003
Booklist, September 2003
New York Times Book Review, November 2003
New York Times Book Review, December 2003
Globe & Mail, October 2004
To find out how to look for other reviews, please see our guides to finding book reviews in the Sciences or Social Sciences and Humanities.
Summaries
Main Description
In his delightfully candid introduction, John Updike gives us a glimpse of his early days as a writer, sending out his first short stories to THE NEW YORKER. He also explains his rationale for arranging this collection thematically, reflecting phases of life from Olinger Stories through Married Life to Single Life. These extraordinarily evocative stories evoke the generation bom in small town America during the Depression and growing up in a world where the old sexual morality was turned around and material comforts were easily had. Yet, as these stories reflect so acutely, the upheavals were unsettling, and Updike chronicles all the telling moments of the joys and the pain. In describing how he wrote these stories in a small rented, smoke-filled office In Ispwich, MA, he says: "I felt I was packaging something as delicately pervasive as smoke, one box after another, in that room, where my only social duty was to tell the truth, that is, to describe mundane things so closely as to reveal their beauty." A magnificent book that will be a treasure for Updike fans and a wonderful introduction for those just discovering his work.
Main Description
"He is a religious writer; he is a comic realist; he knows what everything feels like, how everything works. He is putting together a body of work which in substantial intelligent creation will eventually be seen as second to none in our time." William H. Pritchard, The Hudson Review, reviewing Museums and Women (1972) A harvest and not a winnowing, The Early Stories preserves almost all of the short fiction John Updike published between 1954 and 1975. The stories are arranged in eight sections, of which the first, "Olinger Stories," already appeared as a paperback in 1964; in its introduction, Updike described Olinger, Pennsylvania, as "a square mile of middle-class homes physically distinguished by a bend in the central avenue that compels some side streets to deviate from the grid pattern." These eleven tales, whose heroes age from ten to over thirty but remain at heart Olinger boys, are followed by groupings titled "Out in the World," "Married Life," and "Family Life," tracing a common American trajectory. Family life is disrupted by the advent of "The Two Iseults," a bifurcation originating in another small town, Tarbox, Massachusetts, where the Puritan heritage co-exists with post-Christian morals. "Tarbox Tales" are followed by "Far Out," a group of more or less experimental fictions on the edge of domestic space, and "The Single Life," whose protagonists are unmarried and unmoored. Of these one hundred three stories, eighty first appeared in The New Yorker, and the other twenty-three in journals from the enduring Atlantic Monthly and Harper's to the defunct Big Table and Transatlantic Review . All show Mr. Updike's wit and verbal felicity, his reverence for ordinary life, and his love of the transient world. From the Hardcover edition.
Main Description
"He is a religious writer; he is a comic realist; he knows what everything feels like, how everything works. He is putting together a body of work which in substantial intelligent creation will eventually be seen as second to none in our time." William H. Pritchard, The Hudson Review, reviewing Museums and Women (1972) A harvest and not a winnowing,The Early Storiespreserves almost all of the short fiction John Updike published between 1954 and 1975. The stories are arranged in eight sections, of which the first, "Olinger Stories," already appeared as a paperback in 1964; in its introduction, Updike described Olinger, Pennsylvania, as "a square mile of middle-class homes physically distinguished by a bend in the central avenue that compels some side streets to deviate from the grid pattern." These eleven tales, whose heroes age from ten to over thirty but remain at heart Olinger boys, are followed by groupings titled "Out in the World," "Married Life," and "Family Life," tracing a common American trajectory. Family life is disrupted by the advent of "The Two Iseults," a bifurcation originating in another small town, Tarbox, Massachusetts, where the Puritan heritage co-exists with post-Christian morals. "Tarbox Tales" are followed by "Far Out," a group of more or less experimental fictions on the edge of domestic space, and "The Single Life," whose protagonists are unmarried and unmoored. Of these one hundred three stories, eighty first appeared inThe New Yorker,and the other twenty-three in journals from the enduringAtlantic MonthlyandHarper'sto the defunctBig TableandTransatlantic Review. All show Mr. Updike's wit and verbal felicity, his reverence for ordinary life, and his love of the transient world. From the Hardcover edition.
Table of Contents
Forewordp. xi
Olinger Stories
You'll Never Know, Dear, How Much I Love Youp. 3
The Alligatorsp. 7
Pigeon Feathersp. 13
Friends from Philadelphiap. 34
A Sense of Shelterp. 41
Flightp. 52
The Happiest I've Beenp. 67
The Persistence of Desirep. 81
The Blessed Man of Boston, My Grandmother's Thimble, and Fanning Islandp. 91
Packed Dirt, Churchgoing, a Dying Cat, a Traded Carp. 102
In Football Seasonp. 122
Out in the World
The Lucid Eye in Silver Townp. 129
The Kid's Whistlingp. 138
Ace in the Holep. 144
Tomorrow and Tomorrow and So Forthp. 152
The Christian Roommatesp. 161
Dentistry and Doubtp. 184
A Madmanp. 190
Still Lifep. 201
Homep. 214
Who Made Yellow Roses Yellow?p. 225
His Finest Hourp. 237
A Trillion Feet of Gasp. 248
Dear Alexandrosp. 257
The Doctor's Wifep. 261
At a Bar in Charlotte Amaliep. 269
Married Life
Toward Eveningp. 283
Snowing in Greenwich Villagep. 288
Sunday Teasingp. 296
Incestp. 303
A Gift from the Cityp. 315
Walter Briggsp. 334
The Crow in the Woodsp. 340
Should Wizard Hit Mommy?p. 344
Wife-Wooingp. 350
Unstuckp. 354
Giving Bloodp. 361
Twin Beds in Romep. 372
Marching through Bostonp. 380
Nakednessp. 389
Family Life
The Family Meadowp. 397
The Day of the Dying Rabbitp. 401
How to Love America and Leave It at the Same Timep. 411
The Music Schoolp. 416
Man and Daughter in the Coldp. 421
The Rescuep. 428
Plumbingp. 436
The Orphaned Swimming Poolp. 442
When Everyone Was Pregnantp. 446
Eros Rampantp. 451
Sublimatingp. 462
Nevadap. 470
The Gun Shopp. 480
Sonp. 491
Daughter, Last Glimpses ofp. 496
The Two Iseults
Solitairep. 505
Leavesp. 510
The Starep. 514
Museums and Womenp. 520
Avec la Bebe-Sitterp. 530
Four Sides of One Storyp. 537
The Morningp. 546
My Lover Has Dirty Fingernailsp. 552
Harv Is Plowing Nowp. 559
I Will Not Let Thee Go, Except Thou Bless Mep. 564
Tarbox Tales
The Indianp. 573
The Hilliesp. 579
The Tarbox Policep. 584
The Cornerp. 589
A & Pp. 596
Lifeguardp. 602
The Deaconp. 608
The Carol Singp. 614
The Taste of Metalp. 618
Your Lover Just Calledp. 623
Commercialp. 630
Minutes of the Last Meetingp. 636
Believersp. 640
Eclipsep. 645
Far Out
Archangelp. 649
The Darkp. 651
The Astronomerp. 656
The Witnessesp. 661
A Constellation of Eventsp. 666
Ethiopiap. 675
Transactionp. 682
Augustine's Concubinep. 702
During the Jurassicp. 708
Under the Microscopep. 713
The Balcuhitheriump. 716
The Invention of the Horse Collarp. 719
Jesus on Honshup. 723
The Slumpp. 727
The Sea's Green Samenessp. 730
The Single Life
The Bulgarian Poetessp. 737
The Hermitp. 751
I Am Dying, Egypt, Dyingp. 765
Separatingp. 788
Gesturingp. 799
Killingp. 810
Problemsp. 820
The Man Who Loved Extinct Mammalsp. 823
Love Song, for a Moog Synthesizerp. 829
Index of Titlesp. 835
Table of Contents provided by Ingram. All Rights Reserved.

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