Death of Distant Friends

It's been awhile since i read the "Death of distant friends", a short story by John Updike. In true Updike fashion, the main character is a middle-aged white man on his second wife, after a series of "indiscretions" smothered the first.
I have this discussion with a lot of my friends about my relationship with Updike; i am not white, disillusioned, middle-aged, never been to New England and don't cheat on my boyfriends. I have thought about it, been tempted, but i didn't have the stomach for it really. Infidelity is just so messy, what with so many lies to keep straight. Maybe when i get older i will have more of an appetite for it, like Updike's characters :)

Yet, even though i can't necessarily relate to his characters on the surface, there is something there that i always felt drawn to. I just find it fascinating this unravelling effect age seems to have on your ideals of love and everything you once believed; it's like watching a storm slowly beat down a house. I am fascinated. Like i am fascinated with people and what makes them do things. And, i like that none of the characters are clear cut; you see fidelity and the lack of it from so many angles.

Also, it beautiful prose, i like beautiful things :)

Anyways, In the " Death of Distant Friends" the protagonist relays the effects of the death of three friends, one of which his dog

The essence of the story is captured in the last paragraph:

"The truth-how terrible to acknowledge- all three of these deaths make me happy, in a way. Witness to my disgrace is being removed. The world is growing lighter. Eventually there be none to remember me as I was I those embarrassing, disarrayed years when I scuttled without a shell, between houses and wives, a snake between skins a monster of selfishness, my grotesque needs naked and pink, my social presence beggarly and vulnerable. The deaths of others carry us off bit by bit, until there will be nothing left, and this, too, will be, in a way, a mercy.

And there in lies the risk of this thing we call friendship isn't it, at least the ones we consider "true". Those who are privy to our " grotesque needs naked and pink…….. our social presence beggarly and vulnerable" their knowing are reminders of our flaws, our humanity, however unpleasant; we can hide from our reflections in the mirror but the contortions on another face is different matter.

So, anyways, you can read the story on the New Yorker's website, where it was first published.
enjoy!