IT ALL COMES BACK TO ME, AGAIN

John Updike died today/yesterday (I am up late), which feels strange for me, because I just read David Foster Wallace's review of whatever his latest book was in 1999 (the sci-fi-ish one). It's strange because it resulted in the most I had ever thought about Updike in my life, and because it is (koff koff) decidedly less than an encomium.