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It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise — depths unplumbable!”
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”
For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
-- "Requiem" by John Updike
When I saw this headlined in the Times today, I thought, "Leave it to Updike to continue expanding his métier even in death, as he writes his own obituary." But this creative move is due just as much to the Times, as it is a poem taken from an upcoming collection of Updike's poetry. I did find it a little spooky at first.
Were I to die, no one would say,
“Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise — depths unplumbable!”
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
“I thought he died a while ago.”
For life’s a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
-- "Requiem" by John Updike
When I saw this headlined in the Times today, I thought, "Leave it to Updike to continue expanding his métier even in death, as he writes his own obituary." But this creative move is due just as much to the Times, as it is a poem taken from an upcoming collection of Updike's poetry. I did find it a little spooky at first.
