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S por John Updike
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S (edição 1988)

por John Updike (Autor)

MembrosCríticasPopularidadeAvaliação médiaMenções
7621121,638 (3.37)51
In a moment of sudden inspiration Sarah Worth - S. - has walked out on her husband to join the Ashram Arhat. Famous for his transcendent wisdom and divine immobility, the Arhat has transferred his ahram from India to Arizona, where he and his enthusiastic entourage are attempting to make the desert fruitful.… (mais)
Membro:sofiatahzib
Título:S
Autores:John Updike (Autor)
Informação:Alfred A. Knopf (1988), Edition: 1st, 288 pages
Colecções:A sua biblioteca
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S por John Updike

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Mostrando 1-5 de 11 (seguinte | mostrar todos)
a slightly arch parody of female emancipation genre and take- off on Ragsnesh etc.
  ritaer | Apr 10, 2020 |
I can admire what Updike did here, and I enjoyed the epistolary format (which really made the book, in my opinion), but I can't say that I felt this stood up to Updike's other works--or, those that I've read, anyway. It felt a little bit like a literary experiment, more than a book I could really engage with and enjoy, and it quickly became fairly predictable. I suppose it's something I might recommend to English majors and writers thinking to experiment in this territory, but otherwise, it's probably not something I'd recommend. It is what it is, and it's well done and beautifully written, but it's likely one I'll remember for the wrong reasons (in my opinion). ( )
1 vote whitewavedarling | Nov 28, 2018 |
This took me a long time to read and I kept mentally contrasting it to the movie (very difficult, as they are hardly the same at all). But, I really liked the end ... almost enough to make me consider picking up The Widows of Eastwick. ( )
  SMBrick | Feb 25, 2018 |
Updike has a gift for the ingenious simile and evocative description, but no sense of proportion or tact. His overfurnished paragraphs are filled with freckles like pencil shavings and "esses" like a just-extinguished match and strings of raindrops played by the wind like fingers on a harp until you're visualizing a harpist stubbing out a match on a newly-sharpened pencil but not the scene he is actually describing. Or you lose the train of a conversation as he pauses to describe the boar's head on a bottle of Gordon's gin & the rind on the Gouda cheese or to note that the dish rack from which an inconsequential dish is taken is made of rubber-coated wire. Sometimes the detail arguably reveals character or setting or comments on overconsumption or whatever, but frankly most of the time it seems superfluous & indulgent: Updike is just offering endless description because that is the only thing he can do better than anybody else.

Aside from the allurements (such as they are) of Updike's style, this novel feels rather miscellaneous, a loose assortment of descriptions of the weather, exposition-heavy telephone conversations, lore about witchcraft (I wanted more of this), Pynchonesque talk about the second law of thermodynamics, middle-aged group sex, Hawthornesque character names (Arthur Hallybread, etc.), and some fairly effective magical-realist set-pieces. There's plenty to sink your teeth into, but the whole is less than the sum of the parts. While Updike brings in the historical notion of the "witch" as an invention of patriarchy, its persecuted other (the midwife, etc.) it is unclear how this is supposed to connect to these witches, who do, in fact, practice real magic, and use it mainly to hurt other women. And Darryl Van Horne's disquisitions on pop art, alternative energy, the second law of thermodynamics, and parasitic worms don't seem, in the end, fully germane, any more than the pedestrian musicological analysis of Bach's second cello suite that grinds the novel to a halt about thirty pages from the end.

Symptomatic of the disconnectedness of the novel is the narrative voice, which drifts between Faulknerian collective narration (the "we" of Eastwick) and conventional third-person omniscience.

In the end we're left with the descriptive passages, which can be comically overdone but can also be striking. A minor novelist with a major style, as Bloom (rightly, for once) opined. ( )
1 vote middlemarchhare | Nov 25, 2015 |
S by John Updike
This book is a compilation of letters from Sarah Worth as she writes to many others who live back home. She has left Charles and has moved to the west.
She goes on and on and on about some things like she's very lonely and hasn't talked to anyone in months. So explicit instructions on how to clean, leave which doors unlocked when the maid comes, etc
She has left to go follow a religious cult of sorts and devote her life to the organization. She writes to many telling them her side of what happened. Liked the details of the co-op and the jobs she has while there, so descriptive.
At times she is teaching the yoga phrases and monosyllables as if they are a new language.
Lots of discussion of the Budha practices, nudity, sex scenes and how it all plays a part in where she is located.
I received this book from National Library Service for my BARD (Braille Audio Reading Device). ( )
  jbarr5 | Feb 13, 2015 |
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She had dark and abundant hair, so glossy that it threw off the sunshine with a gleam, and a face which, besides being beautiful from regularity of feature and richness of complexion, had the impressiveness belonging to a marked brow and deep black eyes. She was lady-like, too, after the manner of the feminine gentility of those days; characterized by a certain state and dignity, rather than by the delicate, evanescent, and indescribable grace, which is now recognized as its indication. And never had Hester Prynne appeared more lady-like, in the antique interpretation of the term, than as she issued from the prison. Those who had before known her, and had expected to behold her dimmed and obscured by a disastrous cloud, were astonished, and even startled, to perceive how her beauty shone out, and made a halo of the misfortune and ignominy in which she was enveloped.

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Much of the marble coldness of Hester's impression was to be attributed to the circumstance that her life had turned, in a great measure, from passion and feeling, to thought. Standing alone in the world,—alone, as to any dependence on society, and with little Pearl to be guided and protected,—alone, and hopeless of retrieving her position, even had she not scorned to consider it desirable,—she cast away the fragments of a broken chain. The world's law was no law for her mind.

     —Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter.
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                                                                April 21

Dearest Charles—
    The distance between us grows, even as my pen hesitates.
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Should not be confused or merged with [http://www.librarything.com/work/1424...] by Doug Dorst.
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In a moment of sudden inspiration Sarah Worth - S. - has walked out on her husband to join the Ashram Arhat. Famous for his transcendent wisdom and divine immobility, the Arhat has transferred his ahram from India to Arizona, where he and his enthusiastic entourage are attempting to make the desert fruitful.

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