First published in The New Yorker, November 5, 1973.
I think that there's something about the notion of women as daughters that stirs a sense of adoration in men -- a fragile and glowing pride, especially in regards to a female's evolution from girl to woman. John Mayer wrote a song about it. So did Loudon Wainwright. The Beatles did, too. Granted, this whole daughter theory of mine is a suspicion more than anything else -- and for that matter, one that has been formulated from random bits of evidence. One such bit is Updike's "Daughter, Last Glimpses of."
More than anything, the story is a cautionary tale for fathers: the idea that your children won't be there forever and they will eventually look to other people -- other men -- in the process of constructing new identities, new families. The poignancy of "Daughter, Last Glimpses of" rests not the content of the daughter's actions, but rather, the story as a type of evidence of the father's gaze. It's evidence that reassures you that yes, your father was indeed watching.
Updike masterfully captures this paternal lens. Not only that, it's the kind of lens that I think every daughter would secretly approve of: a mixture of endearment, surprise, and mystification. The father figure who relays the story in first person, Geoffrey, is simultaneously impressed and puzzled by his daughter Joy. Between her impulsive desire to learn the jitterbug, her sewing, her investment in contributing to family affairs, and her fuss over raising chickens, the father exhibits a most beautiful and simple fascination.
The latter endeavor carried Joy away, she eventually leaves her family to live with the man who delivered the rooster, described as "the red-bearded harpsichord-maker." Once again, Updike grapples with notions of masculinity in the contentious relationship between the rooster (which is left behind after Joy leaves) and the man who delivered it. The reader feels Updike frown in this exchange, an unfair trade of a rooster for his daughter. While creature serves as an inadequate replacement for Joy, his role that of a painful signifier, a ghost that continues to thrive even in Joy's absence. While life goes on for Joy's family (and the rooster), the father expresses a distinct discontent with the construct of time: the speed at which Joy fled and the life that has ensued in the aftermath of her departure. Perhaps this sentiment is best captured in the final contemplative line, "...the difference between soulless creatures and human beings: creatures find every dawn as remarkable as all the ones previous, whereas the soul grows calluses."
The callus metaphor points to the greater moral of the story that I illuminated at the beginning of this piece. A callus desensitizes us to feeling life fully. And continuing in the Updike's theme of male identity, we tend to associate calluses with men: a biologically-produced armor that fails to protect us against another type of pain.
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Statement of Purpose
I first discovered John Updike when perusing my 11th grade AP English class textbook. During an idle lunch period, I stumbled across "A&P," fell in love -- and well, the rest is history.
While I will read anything written by Updike, I retain a special fondness for his short stories. After all, that's what first sparked my interest. It is also my belief that Updike reveals the most of himself in these pieces. Since I am endlessly fascinated by how life informs artistic practice, I conceive of these stories are opportunities to ponder and explore his life life through a fictional lens.
For me, reading Updike's work is an immensely interactive process: one in which I am constantly generating thoughts, questions, and observations about the text. As it stands, these ideas are only in my head, but I realized that would like to have some sort of documentation of these ideas. While I could jot notes in my books, I would prefer to not have them scattered in a variety of sources. In other words, I am in pursuit of a better archival system.
So here's the idea: when I read one of his stories, I'll write a brief summary of my reaction. Things that I liked. Things that bothered me. Sentences that blew me away. Endings that confused me.
Since my current preoccupation as a student mainly concerns reading and writing, I am aiming to cover one or two stories a week. After all, there is no rush and there will be much to say. I'll want to make sure that I am doing the stories justice -- or, in the words of Updike, giving "the mundane it's beauitufl due."
While I will read anything written by Updike, I retain a special fondness for his short stories. After all, that's what first sparked my interest. It is also my belief that Updike reveals the most of himself in these pieces. Since I am endlessly fascinated by how life informs artistic practice, I conceive of these stories are opportunities to ponder and explore his life life through a fictional lens.
For me, reading Updike's work is an immensely interactive process: one in which I am constantly generating thoughts, questions, and observations about the text. As it stands, these ideas are only in my head, but I realized that would like to have some sort of documentation of these ideas. While I could jot notes in my books, I would prefer to not have them scattered in a variety of sources. In other words, I am in pursuit of a better archival system.
So here's the idea: when I read one of his stories, I'll write a brief summary of my reaction. Things that I liked. Things that bothered me. Sentences that blew me away. Endings that confused me.
Since my current preoccupation as a student mainly concerns reading and writing, I am aiming to cover one or two stories a week. After all, there is no rush and there will be much to say. I'll want to make sure that I am doing the stories justice -- or, in the words of Updike, giving "the mundane it's beauitufl due."