And Yet the Hope Doesn't Die, There Exists Today But One...

My friends. I love John Updike. He is without a doubt my favorite writer. He has been for quite some time now. Although I've had my share of literary infidelities over the years with the likes of Cormac McCarthy, Philip Roth, and even Theodore Dreiser (just for the experience) at the end of the day there can be only one. My Johnny. But there is one problem. I don't know why I love him the way I do. Sure the way he describes scenery and human emotion is painfully beautiful, but many authors I read have an ecstatic prose at least somewhat comparable in depth. When I talk about how great he is to other book readers they don't see exactly what I see. They give him a try, admit he has a big vocabulary, perhaps humor me a little on their actual enjoyment of it. But no one I've met can truly say they love him. And I think when it comes down to it, the love I have for his writing is the same kind of love I hope to find in a woman some day. The kind I can't fully explain. Perhaps the only kind that can truly last. After all, Updike states that sex, art, and religion are "the three great secret things of the human experience". Love may be greater left as a mystery. It certainly feels that way.