Zusatztext A first novel of rare precision and real merit . . . a rich poorhouse indeed. Newsweek Turning on a narrow plot of ground! it achieves the rarity of bounded! native truth! and comes forth as microcosm. Commonweal Brilliant . . . Here is the conflict of real ideas; of real personalities; here is a work of intellectual imagination and great charity. The Poorhouse Fair is a work of art. The New York Times Book Review Informationen zum Autor John Updike Klappentext "Brilliant . . . Here is the conflict of real ideas; of real personalities; here is a work of intellectual imagination and great charity. The Poorhouse Fair is a work of art."-The New York Times Book Review The hero of John Updike's first novel, published when the author was twenty-six, is ninety-four-year-old John Hook, a dying man who yet refuses to be dominated. His world is a poorhouse-a county home for the aged and infirm-overseen by Stephen Conner, a righteous young man who considers it his duty to know what is best for others. The action of the novel unfolds over a single summer's day, the day of the poorhouse's annual fair, a day of escalating tensions between Conner and the rebellious Hook. Its climax is a contest between progress and tradition, benevolence and pride, reason and faith. Praise for The Poorhouse Fair "A first novel of rare precision and real merit . . . a rich poorhouse indeed."-Newsweek "Turning on a narrow plot of ground, it achieves the rarity of bounded, native truth, and comes forth as microcosm."-Commonweal I WHAT'S THIS? What's what? Why, look. In the cool wash of early sun the individual strands of osier compounding the chairs stood out sharply; arched like separate serpents springing up and turning again into the knit of the wickerwork. An unusual glint of metal pierced the lenient wall of Hook's eyes and struck into his brain, which urged his body closer, to inspect. Onto the left arm of the chair that was customarily his in the row that lined the men's porch the authorities had fixed a metal tab, perhaps one inch by two, bearing MR, printed, plus, in ink, his latter name. A reflex of pride twitched the corners of his mouth; he had always preferred, in the days when certain honors were allowed him, to have his name spelled in full, with the dignity of the middle ini- tial: John F. Hook. On the adjoining chair the name of his companion, Gregg, was similarly imposed. With the eye it was not difficult to follow the shining squares all the way down the line. What birdbrain scheme is this now of Conner's? Gregg asked noisily, as if the taller man might not hear. Is he putting tags on us so we can be trucked off to the slaughterhouse? Well, yes: what is it? A child must tinker. They'll come right off, Gregg said and produced from the hip pocket of his shapeless wool trousers a black bone jackknife of the old style, with a blade for removing the metal cap from bottles. With this blunt blade he adroitly began to loosen, not his own nameplate, but Hook's. Gregg's small brown hands, the thumbs double-jointed and spatulate and the backs covered with dark lines as fine as hair, sought leverage with a quickness that recalled to Hook that his companion had been, before alcohol and progress had undone him, an electrician. Here, Hook said, hoarse as much from the discomfort it caused him to focus his eyes on action so near at hand as from disapproval. In truth he felt helpless. He enjoyed no real control over Gregg, though some crooked whim or weakness led the younger man lately to cling close to Hook's presence. It was Hook's misfortune to have the appearance of authority yet lack the gift of command. He sought a reason that would stay Gregg. If we forget our place, they'll take the chairs themselve...

Autorentext

John Updike

Klappentext

"Brilliant . . . Here is the conflict of real ideas; of real personalities; here is a work of intellectual imagination and great charity. The Poorhouse Fair is a work of art."-The New York Times Book Review

The hero of John Updike's first novel, published when the author was twenty-six, is ninety-four-year-old John Hook, a dying man who yet refuses to be dominated. His world is a poorhouse-a county home for the aged and infirm-overseen by Stephen Conner, a righteous young man who considers it his duty to know what is best for others. The action of the novel unfolds over a single summer's day, the day of the poorhouse's annual fair, a day of escalating tensions between Conner and the rebellious Hook. Its climax is a contest between progress and tradition, benevolence and pride, reason and faith.

Praise for The Poorhouse Fair

"A first novel of rare precision and real merit . . . a rich poorhouse indeed."-Newsweek

"Turning on a narrow plot of ground, it achieves the rarity of bounded, native truth, and comes forth as microcosm."-Commonweal

Leseprobe
I

“WHAT’S THIS?”

“What’s what?”

“Why, look.”

In the cool wash of early sun the individual strands of osier compounding the chairs stood out sharply; arched like separate serpents springing up and turning again into the knit of the wickerwork. An unusual glint of metal pierced the lenient wall of Hook’s eyes and struck into his brain, which urged his body closer, to inspect. Onto the left arm of the chair that was customarily his in the row that lined the men’s porch the authorities had fixed a metal tab, perhaps one inch by two, bearing MR, printed, plus, in ink, his latter name. A reflex of pride twitched the corners of his mouth; he had always preferred, in the days when certain honors were allowed him, to have his name spelled in full, with the dignity of the middle ini- tial: John F. Hook. On the adjoining chair the name of his companion, Gregg, was similarly imposed. With the eye it was not difficult to follow the shining squares all the way down the line.

“What birdbrain scheme is this now of Conner’s?” Gregg asked noisily, as if the taller man might not hear. “Is he putting tags on us so we can be trucked off to the slaughterhouse?”

“Well, yes: what is it? A child must tinker.”

“They’ll come right off,” Gregg said and produced from the hip pocket of his shapeless wool trousers a black bone jackknife of the old style, with a blade for removing the metal cap from bottles. With this blunt blade he adroitly began to loosen, not his own nameplate, but Hook’s.

Gregg’s small brown hands, the thumbs double-jointed and spatulate and the backs covered with dark lines as fine as hair, sought leverage with a quickness that recalled to Hook that his companion had been, before alcohol and progress had undone him, an electrician.

“Here,” Hook said, hoarse as much from the discomfort it caused him to focus his eyes on action so near at hand as from disapproval. In truth he felt helpless. He enjoyed no real control over Gregg, though some crooked whim or weakness led the younger man lately to cling close to Hook’s presence. It was Hook’s misfortune to have the appearance of authority yet lack the gift of command. He sought a reason that would stay Gregg. “If we forget our place, they’ll take the chairs themselves off, and we’ll be left to stand.”

“And then all die of heart attacks; I hope we do. It’ll make a f.ing black mark in Conner’s book, to have us all keel over without a place to sit.”

“It’s a sin to talk on so,” Hook exclaimed positively, for death, to his schoolteacher’s mind, was a bell that must find the students with their noses to the desks. “And,” he went on, “it is a mis-take for the old to mo-lest others’ property. The young now, the young have nothing, and may be winked at when they steal a foretaste; but those who …