“bored with reminiscence,” as a line goes in this story, yet another one of Updike’s melancholy eulogies for the life he lost with his divorce, the parties, the beaches, “the idyllic grandeur.” It is one retread after another allegorized as Farnham’s lost Atlantis, Farnham being an older man now exiled with a second wife to some landlocked place often confused with Ohio. Atlantis and Plato here play the role of Updike’s props, the props he uses to cloak his fiction in a gravity it otherwise lacks. The reminiscing is contrasted with a silence that sounds suspiciously like Updike’s prison-like marriage to Martha, though he remained within sight of the sea. This is the man who included in the bequest of his papers to Harvard, his golf scorecards.
The New Yorker, November 13, 1978