After the Kinsey Report but before the first Penthouse Forum, John Updike wrote, “He kneels in a kind of sickness between her spread legs. With her help their blind loins fit.” That’s Rabbit, while running; after a pickup game of hoops, he will pick up a girl, to diddle and almost destroy. Anyway, Rabbit hops on, and off, or rather: “they make love, in morning light with cloudy mouths.” In the four decades since Rabbit, Run, Updike has labored, like Professor Murray on the Oxford English, to assemble the definitive thesaurus of all things carnal and knowledgeable. It would be impolite to inquire too much about his field research and working methods, but you can be sure he’s paid equal attention to the graffiti in bathroom stalls, Byron’s Don Juan and the wild, precise nonsense people sigh mid-screw. To “cloudy mouths” and mythological “loins,” Updike adds, in Villages, “heavenly invasion,” “nipples like rabbit noses” and “whimpering, finger-sucking dissolution,” not to mention what Owen, our hero, thinks looking down at his lover from behind: “This is the neck the executioner sees.”
Updike cranks out a lot of books. Villages is his twenty-first novel, which is impressive even if you don’t count the many short stories and essays in The New Yorker, the children’s books and poetry collections, the writings on golf and the play where President Buchanan splits hairs, falls short and dies. Elizabeth Hardwick once called Updike “as productive of print as a Victorian” and his body of work “a promiscuous, astonishing span.” Among the various novels, there is one in which Updike founds and then overthrows his own African nation; in another he conjures up weird witchy sisters and they conjure up thunderstorms, love charms and cancer. Then, once a decade, Updike runs back to Rabbit, like a movie star returning to a surefire franchise.
Between Rabbits, Updike mostly putters around small-town New England. For him, it still provides the very best laboratory conditions for testing what erects penises and topples families. After all, in Updike’s villages, dentists and homemakers, wine-light and lousy, believe they’re bantering as wittily as Benedick and Beatrice, or Hudson and Day; post-Pill, every potluck threatens to turn into an orgy. So with the special care of a model train enthusiast, Updike will lay down in well-tended sentences his miniature scenery of quaintly crumbling barns and white-steepled churches, fixer-upper farmhouses and newsstands that reliably stock the Sunday Times. And then he’ll install parks with secret picnic spots, houses with always-empty guest rooms and inconspicuous motels at the edge of town. Plenty of hiding places for neighbors (not married to one another), insufficiently alibi’d, pants down, skirts up, as they–well, I’ll leave the specifics to him.
Villages, Updike’s latest, is a Bildungsroman chronicling the life and times of Owen Mackenzie, as he grows from his making-ends-meet childhood during the Depression to the comfortable retirement of a software designer who bought and sold Apple stock at exactly the right time. Throughout the novel, his sentimental education is supervised by a hands-on faculty of tomboys, crushes, mistresses, one-night stands and, of course, his two wives: first, insulated, always unattainable Phyllis, that “beautiful math major”; then, “small, dense-bodied” Julia, whom he wins away from the local Episcopalian minister, a woman who finally teaches him uxoriousness and the pleasures of keeping it in his pants, whom he grows old with and will be buried beside.