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I usually don't comment on covers, but this thing screams "grandma just learned photoshop." is that a clip art basketball? my god, I'd rather stare at sergio de la pava's epilepsy-inducing covers than glance at this visual failure.

with this single book i gather that updike is a lyrical writer, who explores the surface of things, only the surface. one envisions an author who skips philosophy class in order to go watch soap operas on tv for inspiration. nothing wrong with that, I mean, he created a memorable family drama here - this kind of banal writing, however, makes me want to reactively binge on kierkegaard or sartre.