A New Yorker faz um tributo a John Updike, um dos escritores do seu staff, e que morreu esta semana. O depoimento de Jonathan Lethem, autor de A Fortaleza da Solidão, é o mais comovente até agora:
“I never met Updike, but the last time I laid eyes on him was, crazily, 9/11/01, when, midday, after finally wrenching myself from the television screen in the grip of which I’d been spinning like Jimmy Stewart in the animated sequence in “Vertigo,” I joined some friends in wandering up to the Brooklyn Heights Marriott, on Adams Street, where we been told—misinformed—we could donate the blood that wasn’t needed anyway. It was something to do, and we were desperate for that. In the milling confusion and cross-purposes in that crowded hotel lobby was Updike, looking just as despondent and damaged as we felt, presumably on the same kindly fool’s errand. Impossible to speak to him in that circumstance, but what a sighting”.
Eis o retrato do artista diante da desolação humana.