Self-Consciousness, by John Updike

Updike takes the reader on a march through the past he considered worthy of his biography: growing up in Shillington, psoriasis, stuttering, the Vietnam War, his family tree, and religion. Throughout, he gives examples from his fiction writing that was based on real events mentioned in the biographical text. The fictional account always seems to follow very closely the biographical version of the events and the fictional version doesn’t appear to offer additional details that give greater depth of meaning to the events. Updike seems to think that whatever happens in the real world is ‘deep’ enough.

He does share some interesting observations on writing; which should be expected from a writer as prolific as he is. He compares his writing with his skin disease, psoriasis:

What was my creativity, my relentless need to produce, but a parody of my skin’s embarrassing overproduction? Was not my thick literary skin, which shrugged off rejection slips and patronizing reviews by the sheaf, a superior version of my poor vulnerable own, and my shamelessness on the page a distraction from my real shame? (75)

He compares his writing style to that of Proust, “styles of tender exploration that tried to wrap themselves around the things…” (103) Updike does seems to approach his subjects in a broad, expansive way that could be described as an embrace. He never appears to tie down anything he writes about, but lets it remain free to affect the reader as it will.

He shares about difficulties entering into the writing profession: “The great temple of fiction has no well-marked front portal; most devotees arrive through a side door, and not dressed for worship.” (108)

Finally, he writes very interestingly about his past selves (much as Joan Didion wrote about keeping on touch with one’s former selves so that they don’t come back knocking on the mind’s door at three in the morning):

That we age and leave behind this litter of dead, unrecoverable selves is both unbearable and the commonest thing in the world-it happens to everybody. In the morning light one can write breezily, without the slightest acceleration of one’s pulse, about what one cannot contemplate in the dark without turning in panic to God. In the dark one truly feels that immense sliding, that turning of the vast earth into darkness and eternal cold… (226)

Updike mentions that critics of his writing said that he had a lot to write about, but very little to say. With that admission, it makes it hard to evaluate Updike’s work here. However, it’s not always clear that growing up in Shillington, having psoriasis, enduring stuttering, his hawkish position on the Vietnam War, his family tree, and generalities on religion constitute an apt biography of Updike. He seemed very lonely, almost in a child’s way, throughout his life. Apparently this loneliness, and his unrelenting self-consciousness, makes him the writer he is.