This is another of Updike's typically very-good short story collection, though unusual in its tripartite divisions with the first section being traditional stories, the second being experimental, and the third continuing his Maple stories about the married couple named Richard and Joan Maple. The latter continues to be quietly engrossing, basically being elliptical “scenes from a marriage” looking at their varying temperaments, relationships, and personalities with each other, through their children, friends, and in relationship with various social issues, like civil rights (Joan is gung-ho for it, Richard is more conservative and skeptical, but supportive of his wife). More than anything I love the ambiguity of tone Updike maintains, and his unusually restrained but elegant and very poised style allows for every minor change—whether wryness, poignancy, bitterness, irony, etc.—to register subtly, and the variety of such tonal nuances keep things interesting.
The “experimental” section is more hit than miss with me, though I can appreciate the originality of ideas, that ranges from a social get-together among dinosaurs, to a time-travelling interview with a baluchitherium (an extinct creature I’d never heard of; apparently it was the largest land mammal).
The stories in the first section may be the collection’s highlights: all of them are elegant and graceful snapshots of love (lost or gained), family, community, neighborhoods, and often memories. All of these stories seem to feel like the way memories feel when we remember them; nostalgic, without being sentimental. This passage from When Everyone Was Pregnant was especially striking, and emblematic of this section of the collection, if not Updike’s work in general: “I make these notes on the train. My hand shakes. My town slides by, the other comfortable small towns, the pastures and glimpses of sea. A single horse galloping. A golf course with a dawn foursome frozen on the green, dew-white. And then the lesser cities, the little one-hotel disgruntled cities, black walls hurled like fists at our windows, broken factory windows, a rusted drawbridge halted forever at almost-down, a gravel yard with bluestones pyramided by size, a dump smoldering, trash in all the colors of jewels; then the metropolis, the tracks multiplying as swiftly as products in a calculator, the hazed skyscrapers changing relationship to one another like the steeples in Proust, the tunnels of billboards, the station, vast and derelict; the final stop. This evening, the same thing backward.
“But never get bored with how the train slices straight, lightly rocking, through intersections of warning bells dinging, past playgrounds and back yards, warehouses built on a bias to fit the right-of-way. Like time: cuts through everything, keeps going.
“Notes not come to anything. Lives not come to anything. Life a common stock that fluctuates in value. But you cannot sell, you must hold, hold till it dips to nothing. The big boys sell you out.
“Edgar to blinded Gloucester: Ripeness is all. Have never exactly understood. Ripeness is all that is left? Or ripeness is all that matters? Encloses all, answers all, justifies all. Ripeness is God.
“Now: our babies drive cars, push pot, shave, menstruate, riot for peace, eat macrobiotic. Wonderful in many ways, but not ours, never ours, we see now. Now: we go to a party and see only enemies. All the shared years have made us wary, survival-conscious. Sarah looks away. Spokes of the wheel are missing. Our babies accuse us. Treated them like bonuses, flourishes added to our happiness.
“Did the Fifties exist? Voluptuous wallpaper. Crazy kid. Sickening sensation of love. The train slides forward. The decades slide seaward, taking us along. Still afraid. Still grateful.”