I came home convinced that the quartet was the best American novel of the postwar period. Harry died the book ended my tour was over. After three weeks, both Harry and I found ourselves in Florida, 'death's favourite state', as he puts it in the final volume, Rabbit at Rest. And even when, too exhausted to do anything, I fell back on the hotel minibar and the television, I found I was only replicating Harry 'Rabbit' Angstrom's preferred way of ingesting politics and current events. This gave my reading, it felt, a deepening stereoscopy. When released from publicity duties, I would either retreat inwards to Updike's prose, or outwards to walk ordinary American streets. I picked up the others in different American cities, in chunky Fawcett Crest paperbacks, and read them as I criss-crossed the country my bookmarks were the stubs of boarding passes. I was on a book tour of the States, and bought the first volume, Rabbit, Run, in a Penguin edition at Heathrow airport.

I had first read the Rabbit quartet in the autumn of 1991, in what felt near-perfect circumstances. Should you choose one of those previously unopened? Or go for one you suspect you misread, or undervalued, at the time? Or one, like Couples, which you might have read for somewhat non-literary reasons? I have only ever met one person – a distinguished arts journalist – who has read all Updike's 60-plus books most of us, even long-term fans, probably score between 30 and 40. And sometimes the nature of the writer's oeuvre creates a problem of choice. Occasionally, it may be prudent to resist going back: when Lawrence Durrell died, I preferred to remain with 40-year-old memories of The Alexandria Quartet rather than risk such lushness again. W hen a writer you admire dies, rereading seems a normal courtesy and tribute.

Crocopotamus by Mary Murphy