Published in 1970, Bech: A Book chronicles the exploits of Jewish American writer Henry Bech who, though still relatively young (around 40), finds his initially promising literary career on a distressing downward trajectory. Updike’s Bech is a not-so-rare phenomenon: the precocious young literary star whose subsequent output has not come close to matching the critical and popular success of his first novel. That novel, Travel Light, was a surprise hit. It established his credentials and, having breached the halls of academia, continues to generate discussion and (better yet) sales. But after a second novel (Brother Pig) was greeted with bewilderment, a collection of miscellaneous pieces (When the Saints) that was widely ignored, and a third novel (The Chosen) that was panned and failed to catch on with readers, poor Bech finds himself suffering from severe writers block and starting to share his readers’ bewilderment. Updike’s collection of smartly amusing tales that follow our hapless hero through a “cultural exchange” tour of several Soviet-controlled states (Russia, Bulgaria) and visits to London and a Virginia girls’ college is filled with droll observations about the literary life and often hilarious situational comedy. As Updike portrays him, Henry Bech is a man at a creative crossroads. Recently a literary heavyweight, he retains a recognizable name and more-or-less secure reputation, but his star has slipped a few notches and he’s no longer in demand like he used to be. Since he’s not writing he must, in order to maintain a level of income, accept whatever invitations come his way. He is also at sea when it comes to women. He’s preoccupied by sex and easily forms alliances but has difficulty with emotional honesty and avoids commitment like the plague. His greatest fear, vividly evoked, is that his best days are behind him. His greatest frustration is that even though he’s not producing anything, he is still a writer, burdened with a febrile mind awash with ideas that he’s unable to bring to fruition. Frustratingly, no one is interested in his later work: all anyone wants to talk about is Travel Light. Updike presents Bech as a man hobbled by self-doubt, dubious of his accomplishments and uncertain of his legacy, but because of his first book is still subject to warm welcomes and lavish praise that he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve. In the final story, “Bech Enters Heaven,” he is ushered with great ceremony into the hallowed ranks of an unnamed Academy, a body of iconic artists who are being honoured, it seems, for having the audacity to still be alive. The prose throughout is sharp, inspired, and endlessly imaginative. Bech: A Book is Updike at his most wittily sardonic. ( )

Updike is probably my favourite author of all time. This didn't engage me in the same way as his novels, but it certainly IS brilliantly written, sophisticated and very amusing at times.
In snapsots of his life, the reader follows Henry Bech, a 40 something New York Jewish author (one feels that much of Bech is Updike), as he visits the Communist bloc on a book tour; tries pot; is inveigled into holding a seminar at an elite ladies' university, and gets received into the echelons of literature.
Snarky and observant...or sadly recognising the beginning of age, of - maybe- his best work being behind him, it's predictably great writing. ( )

I'm not sure how close to autobiographical Bech is to Updike. I image there's some interchange and it's intentional, but I'm not an Updike scholar, so I won't go too far out on that limb. I'm willing to bet however, that when Bech came out, it was something that ruffled the feathers of polite society even if it would be considered tame today.

The book is funny in a non laugh-out-loud way. It's Updike, so the writing is brilliant as I expected, but I wasn't too enthralled with the story of a middle-aged writer, past the prime of his art, and his exploration of the world only open through his past success. It was alright. However, there were three different passages that made the entire book worth reading. If you plan on reading it, don't read further here. If you don't and you're curious, here you go:

Talking about one of his soon-to-be mistresses:
"He was on the dark side of the earth in a cab with a creature whose dress held dozens of small mirrors. Her legs were white like knives, crossed and recrossed. A triangular bit of punctuation where the thighs ended. The cab moved through empty streets, past wrought-iron gates inked onto the sky and granite museums frowning beneath the weight of their entablatures, across the bright loud gulch if Hyde Park Corner and Park Lane, into darker quieter streets."

"In short, one loses heart in the discovery that one is not being read. That the ability to read, and therefor to write, is being lost, along with the ability to listen, to see, to smell, and to breathe. That all the windows of the spirit are being nailed shut."

"And to think that all the efforts of his life--his preening, his lovemaking, his typing--boiled down to the attempt to displace a few sparks to bias a few circuits, within some random other scoops of jelly that would, in less time that it takes the Andreas Fault to shrug or the tail-tip star of Scorpio to crawl an inch across the map of Heaven, be utterly dissolved. The widest fame and most enduring excellence shrank to nothing in this perspective." ( )

Mycket välskrivet men storyn griper inte riktigt tag i mig. En ironisk betraktelse av en författares resa i europeiska länder. ( )

A passive character, aimless and blocked, Bech wanders the world of writers and literary fests without joy. The stories satirize literary chat and the airless world of writer's symposiums.
Bech is no match for Enderby.