Rabbit Is Rich Book

When Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom begins to weep at his son Nelson's wedding, the ladies stare at him with surprise and become wistful, witnessing these unlikely, raw emotions. Aw, heck, ladies would you just look at Rabbit, mid-life, becoming a big softie? One woman quickly hands him her grubby handkerchief. The poor dear!

Oh, if only they knew. . . that, as the 46-year-old Rabbit stares at the page of his prayer book, which he thinks looks as "white and blank as the nape of Nelson's poor mute frail neck," he is not weeping over how bittersweet and wonderful it all is, that his baby boy is growing up, marrying the woman he has impregnated and is taking his marriage vows. Nope. He's thinking how his son is becoming as trapped as he perceives himself to be. And, he's thinking. . . Run, Nelson, Run!

You see, Rabbit's got a bad case of "creeping middle-itis," and he wants his son to run from the car lot that belongs to their family, wants him to run from the marriage he is entering, and wants him to run from the responsibilities of impending parenthood, too.

And why wouldn't Rabbit want his son to run? Running's what Rabbit does best. He did it in Rabbit, Run, he did it in Rabbit, Redux, and he's doing it all over again, here in Rabbit is Rich.

And, the worst part is. . . Rabbit doesn't know WHAT in hell he's running from. He's convinced himself it's women, even asks his son, "What're you going to do when you run out of women to tell you what do?"

But, that's all bullsh*t, isn't it, Rabbit? You're running from WOMEN? This, from a man who "thinks of the girl's long thigh as she stretched her way into the back seat and imagines he smells vanilla. Cunt would be a good flavor of ice cream, Sealtest ought to work on it."

You LOVE women, Rabbit, so stop calling them "cunts," and grow up.

You're running from yourself, Rabbit, so stop blaming it on the women around you, and stop acting caged by a life you made. (And looks pretty good, too, damn it.) Grow up, Rabbit, you're such a jackass!!

Oh, but, Rabbit, I can't help myself. I can't do anything else but love you as I hate you. Mr. Updike took on such an odyssey here, in creating you, and giving us, his lucky readers, this Tetralogy of Rabbit.

And, Mr. Updike. John. Dear, I know you're dead. . . but, can we talk?