(BECH AT BAY, "Bech In Czech", p. 326)
mercredi 1 septembre 2010
John Updike, THE COMPLETE HENRY BECH, New York, Everyman's Library, 2001    
More fervently than he was a Jew, Bech was a writer, a literary man, and in this dimension, too, he felt cause for unease. He was a creature of the third person, a character. A character suffers from the fear that he will become boring to the author, who will simply let him drop, without so much as a terminal illness or a dramatic tumble down the Reichenbach Falls in thhe arms of Professor Moriarty. For some years now, Bech had felt his author wanting to set him aside, to get him off the desk forever. Rather frantically hoping still to amuse, Bech had developed a new set of tricks, somewhat out of character - he had married, he had written a bestseller. Nevertheless, and especially as his sixties settled on him, as cumbersomely as an astronaut's suit, he felt boredom weighing from above; he was - as H. G. Wells put it in a grotesquely cheerful ackowledgment of his own mortality that the Boy Bech had read back when everything in print impressed him - an experiment whose chemicals were about to be washed down the drain.