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The Coup Paperback
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherCrest
- ISBN-109992849312
- ISBN-13978-9992849316
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Product details
- Language : English
- ISBN-10 : 9992849312
- ISBN-13 : 978-9992849316
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

John Updike was born in 1932, in Shillington, Pennsylvania. He graduated from Harvard College in 1954, and spent a year in Oxford, England, at the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Art. From 1955 to 1957 he was a member of the staff of The New Yorker, and since 1957 lived in Massachusetts. He was the father of four children and the author of more than fifty books, including collections of short stories, poems, essays, and criticism. His novels won the Pulitzer Prize (twice), the National Book Award, the National Book Critics Circle Award, the Rosenthal Award, and the Howells Medal. A previous collection of essays, Hugging the Shore, received the 1983 National Book Critics Circle Award for criticism. John Updike died on January 27, 2009, at the age of 76.
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First published in 1978, The Coup is as fresh today as it was then, the cautionary tale of an African dictator's life and loves which moves effortlessly between exquisite poetry and high farce.
The imaginary country of Kush, a desert landscape unblessed with oil, producing only a meagre crop of peanuts, is the great prize which falls into the lap of the hero, Ellellou, at the stroke of a sword. It is a metaphor for his own life, sprawling, yet producing so little.
Drifting between his many women, Ellellou never succeeds in governing either them or his country. Instead, he meditates on his own life: his student days in America, his travels through the often mythical world of the Sahara, his own search for self-realization. The miracle of the book is that in the end he finds himself, not as a dictator or a political being, but simply as a man.
Seldom does writing give one so physical a pleasure as the lyrical passages in this book.
A magnificent achievement, perhaps Updike's greatest novel.
There are actually two coups here. The first occurs when Ellellou beheads with a scimitar the king and former father figure to him. The decapitation, described by its perpetrator, is a wonder in slow-motion, hallucinatory prose, of which the following is an example:
"I lifted the sword high, so that the reflection from its flashing blade hurtled around the square like a hawk of lethal brightness, slicing the eyes of the crowd and the hardened clay of the facades, the shuttered fearful windows, the blanched, pegged walls and squat aspiring minaret of the Mosque of the Day of Disaster." P.72
And it goes on. The second coup occurs at the end, where Ellellou himself is deposed rather than beheaded, pensioned off to France to write his memoirs, which, of course, comprise this book.
The pith of these memoirs occurs when Ellellou, with one of his wives, takes a harrowing trip to the northeast of his country. Here we learn, in flashbacks, of his upbringing: His stint in the French Army during the French-Indochina War (which, for those unaware, marked the beginning of the Vietnam War) to his study at an American college in Wisconsin where, much to his chagrin, he was Americanised more than he wants to admit to himself. What occurs during this trek is the final break-up of any sort of self-identity. He is torn between African animism and Islam (to which he was converted in America), between French military esprit de corps and individualistic Western notions, between the integrity (as he imagines it) of his native Kush and the irruption of oil-greedy Americans into it. I can't put it better than those seeking his downfall put it into the mouth of the stolen skull of the decapitated king in a rather macabre episode:
"...his political war, which causes him to burn gifts of food and assassinate those functionaries who bring these gifts, is in truth a war within himself, for which the innocent multitudes suffer." P.212
So, the prospective reader is thinking, another mad African dictator, why should I bother? For a number of reasons, I should say, but primarily because you'll come to understand what makes them mad and even sympathise with them. You will actually come to see a bit of you in them, or at least the one depicted here. As Felix poses it:
"But who, in the world, now, does not live between two worlds?"p.62
Who indeed?
Turn to almost any page and you will find a quotable and incisive passage. The details and the descriptions are far more interesting than the minimal plot (example: "More than once we had to detour around a giraffe skeleton strung across the piste, the creature drawn there on its last legs by the thin mane of grass that in this desolation sprang up in response to the liquid that boiling radiators spilled in passing").
Here's what Anthony Burgess wrote about it in 99 Novels, 'There is a large lyric love of the surface of the world, in which accurate visual notation conjoins with a great verbal gift.' Very true. Updike has a lush, clever, poetic writing style. You might say it's Nabokovian. There are many impressive, well crafted images. The guys got some chops.
That said, I didn't read this book with a lot of pleasure. I didn't buy Hakim. I thought he was a caricature. The attempts at humor were forced and un-funny. Worse than all that is that Updike ignores the story. There's alot of backflashing. The scenes jump around willy nilly. Background information is skipped (too mundane for the author). There's zero dramatic tension. Towards the end I had to force myself to finish the thing. I didn't care what happened. Nothing mattered. It was tiresome.
I was surprised how little I liked this book. I remember liking Roger's Version and various short stories by Updike. He whiffed on this one though.
