Updike was the author of my first "serious" novel; it blew my mind because until then, I'd been a fan of the teeny-bopper fare, albeit of a British nature like The Famous Five and The Secret Seven. The Witches of Eastwick was probably not the best choice for a 14-year-old, but the (lots and lots of) sex was alluring as was the writing which was vivid, lurid, and brilliant.
I learned Mr. Updike shook off his mortal coil on Tuesday. Rest in peace, old boy.
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