Death Of John Updike

John Updike’s death is a bummer. It’s a bummer because that pretty much does it for the old guard of literary heroes, with the exception of Tom Wolfe, who is probs watching his impeccably dressed back right now. On the bright side, at least Updike didn’t break your little heart by blowing his brains out like some people. Now that Rabbit’s at rest all that’s left to do is sit here and wait til Sherman McCoy kicks it. That’ll be the cue to fall on your sword. Stud alert unbummer: how cute was 1960s Updike? Genuine bummer: hats off to you, Mr. Updike, you were one of the greats.

Nazi Authors

Finding out an author you like was a Nazi is a bummer. Once you find out someone was a Nazi, it irreversibly colors your perception of them. Even if you’re not the kind of person who spits on the ground every time someone says Hitler’s name (i.e. a Jewish grandma), it still feels a little weird to read stuff by a dude who once gave his Nobel Prize medal to Goebbels. Incidentally, fuck you, Knut Hamsun. Similar, yet extremely shallow, bummer: Finding out cool celebrities are Scientologists. Ahem, Jason Lee, ahem.