of Updike is this sense of a recipe, chunks of narrative all filled with their elements, above all rich descriptive passages that sometimes wag the dog. Perhaps like Joyce Carol Oates it’s too much reliant on knowing the ending first and writing backward, so that the writing of the novel may be a kind of coloring book finishing out for the author. More alive and stronger might be not knowing where things are going in some real sense, surrendering to instinct and the enormity of the project and letting it release something wonderful. A kind of breakthrough like that achieved by Bellow after Dangling Man and the other one until he hit stride with the infinite possibilities of Augie March. It may be Updike arrived too in this way, I’ll have to read more.