The Latent Book Club discovers Rabbit, Run, John Updike’s ambiguous story featuring galvanising hero Harry ‘Rabbit’ Angstrom’s, whose attempts to pursue what he wants, and avoid the things he doesn’t, becomes an exercise in accumulated capriciousness.
Its 1959. Harry ‘Rabbit’ Angstrom is 26; his life has barely begun. Yet he has a wife, Janet, an almost three year old son, Nelson, and another child on the way. And despite the fact Rabbit is only just an adult, his life, he seems to think, is over.
Rabbit’s internalisation of this ‘truth’, and how he deals with it, confronts the reader —and it is a confrontation, make no mistake— as they grapple Updike’s astonishingly well written, but disquieting masterpiece, Rabbit, Run.
We open with Rabbit walking up the street, returning from work. He is smoking, wearing his suit, and gets caught up in a game of basketball being played on the street by some kids. Rabbit is desperate to show off his erstwhile prowess in the sport to them and does so, scoring points with innate skill that the kids dismiss as luck. Opening the novel in this way, Updike later said, was intentional: to give you the type of scene that you could imagine yourself plodding down the isle of a movie theatre to sit in front of - the action of a street game, a slice of life, before we come to the why.
And what is the why indeed? Rabbit, at 26, is probably too old to be messing around in a game of street basketball. He should be on his way home to his toddling son, and pregnant wife. But he’s not. He finds the game too good to miss, because he was a high school basketball superstar. The top of his team. Loved by all. And those days, as he has started to realise, have gone.
Real life is calling for Rabbit, with its responsibilities and burdens. Its work and its monotony. Its thinly plotted domestic simplicity. Rabbit, however, is bored. He is lonely. And he is not, as we will find out, mature enough to handle it.
Thus begins the primary problem with the novel: Rabbit is not a very likeable person, and is frightened to shoulder his share of the burden of the life he has created for himself. One might think ‘he’s just immature’; but as Updike goes on to show, there is more to it than that. Selfish, vain and conceited, Rabbit seems to feel like the world owes him a good time. And when he’s not getting it, he’s bored. Like any Rabbit, he’s looking to run.
And through his stellar prose, Updike wants to make you read on to solve some fundamental questions the book seems to pose: Will Rabbit’s selfishness means he gets what is coming to him? Does the book fundamentally endorse his actions? The answer to those questions is ‘not really’; and ‘it seems so’ respectively, as we will see.
If you can’t find it within you to really like Rabbit (and we certainly couldn’t) it is certainly the writing that keeps you going. It carries the book. Updike is in particular the master of free indirect discourse. He dips in and out of the characters minds, and transposes their thoughts on to the page. And these pages, in which the characters let their thoughts run away with them, are as they are in real life: long. Long walls of text, without punctuation, paragraph or interruption. A true internal monologue, snaking this way, then that; half disjointed thoughts, running up from underneath the surface of consciousness. Sometime this makes them difficult to read. But Updike employs his skills so well, it works more often than it doesn’t.
However being able to peer into the character’s minds in this way does lend the story, and the prose, some of its ugliness. The criticisms here are twofold. First, Updike has been often criticised for being a misogynist. And we can see some portion of that being upheld here. Rabbit’s wife, Janice, is charactersised a fool. This is not particularly for accepting her partner’s misbehaviour - plenty of those in relationships do that. Rather, for accepting it, and her own, as immutable. Updike doesn’t just treat her just as stupid —which would be easier to swallow— but as if she knows she’s stupid. Its not a very nice portrayal. Fortunately, the other main female character, Ruth, does get a more favourable treatment: she at least questions Rabbit, and doesn’t trust him. But that doesn’t take away something from the misogyny charge, which seems to bear up.
The second disquieting aspect to the prose, is again a perennial Updike critique. He has been criticised in the round over the portion of his novels focus on sex; and his seeming obsession with the male member. There’s certainly a lot of that here, and Rabbit’s seemingly endless obsession with slaking his vile lusts (a wonderfully pithy phrase courtesy of Kingsley Amis’ Girl, 20) on virtually every female he lies eyes on: from schoolgirls to his friends’ wives. We did say he’s not a very nice person. And as if to illustrate this point, we get to hear all about it right from his vulgar little mind.
Yes, we get it, Rabbit is only 26, lecherous thoughts are inevitably in his mind. However, this point is made repeatedly and perhaps with too much glee by Updike. And as you might expect, Rabbit spares little thought for his wife. And when he does have sex, little is left to the imagination, although we also get the impression Rabbit is not as profoundly virile as his appellation would suggest.
So if we do uphold charges one and two against Updike, what of the story? Well that is problematic too, but for different reasons. As we open, Janice, Rabbit’s wife, is battling a (perhaps understandable) alcohol problem. Despite having given it up, and being pregnant, when Rabbit returns home after the basketball game at the book’s opening, she is half drunk. She wants him to pick Nelson, their child up, and the car, who is with her mother. Rabbit is angry about the list of tasks she has given him. Instead of supporting her to deal with her problems, or at least gently discouraging her from further imbibing, Rabbit picks a fight with her on her general lack of alluring qualities. Yes, what a nice guy.
He does go to pick up the car, but instead of collecting his almost three year old child ( Nelson is one of the loveliest characters in the book) he decides to run. Setting out from his home in the fictional city of Brewer, Pennsylvania, He drives his car all the way to West Virginia before stopping, in a scene oddly reminiscent of Kerouac’s On The Road. He has decided to leave his wife.
Rabbit, of course, doesn’t get far with this poorly thought out plan. He has nowhere to go, no means of supporting himself, and hasn’t communicated his intentions to anyone. He realises the futility of his plan, and returns to Brewer.
Rabbit meets up with his high school basketball coach, Mr Tothero: another faded glory character who appears to be living in ignominy (a premonition of what is to come, perhaps). But Tothero is happy to see his former high school star, and puts him up. And so Rabbit begins his second life.
This is what Updike wanted to convey: a character who quakes at showing commitment and goes off to live a parallel existence. An athlete, who has peaked in high school, and now, in the real world, has nothing left to give. And while this makes him relatable, it does not make him likeable. Far from it.
Tothero takes Rabbit out to dinner with his mistress, and a woman called Ruth. Rabbit works out that Ruth is, or at least has been a prostitute. He is attracted to her, and offers her $15 (apparently $150 approx in today) to sleep with him. She is ambivalent about the offer - she doesn’t end up taking the money, but they do end up having an affair - and so begins Rabbit’s second domestic life. He lives with Ruth, is infatuated with her, and manages to avoid his other life and responsibilities, whilst assuming a new one, for two whole months.
Two months! during which his son, Nelson, and wife Janice are left to fend for themselves. This seems to not prick the conscience of Rabbit whatsoever. And into this moral vacuum enter Eccles, the priest. Eccles is the prime ethical force in the book. He tries to get Rabbit to realise the error of his ways, and reconcile with his wife. But Rabbit sees things differently. As he explains to Ruth:
"I'll tell you," he says. "When I ran from Janice I made an interesting discovery." The tears bubble over her lids and the salty taste of the pool-water is sealed into her mouth. "If you have the guts to be yourself," he says, "other people'll pay your price."
This may well be a pithy life observation, but when uttered from Rabbit’s mouth it illustrates the selfishness of his character. He is incapable of thinking about anyone but himself. Introduced to Eccles’ home, for instance, his first response is to slap Eccles’ wife on the ass (Rabbit is convinced she is flirting with him, however we as the reader are left unsure —she closes out the book hating Rabbit— having evidently had some intelligence too).
Ultimately, one event is enough to force Rabbit home. And that event is the birth of his second child. Rabbit unceremoniously leaves Ruth to return to his wife, after one rather shocking sex scene (at least gauged by the standards of the time). Leaving Ruth directly after forcing her to perform a sexual act she has no interest in, raises no compunction for Rabbit, but leaves Ruth feeling unloved, and unvalidated.
Rabbit starts to realise that the children he has brought into this world means he must give up his place in it for them. He says:
The fullness ends when we give nature her ransom, when we make children for her. Then she is through with us, and we become, first inside, and then outside, junk. Flower stalks.
But he personally can’t do it, and can think only of himself. Despite being forgiven for all his transgressions by Janice, her parent and his own parents, and being brought home, Rabbit attempts to run again: he abandons Janice, and tries to goes back to Ruth.
In one particularly cruel scene, certainly the nadir of the book, Janice is left, desolate, in charge of both children. She is upset; their newborn girl will not settle. Both are tired. Rabbit encourages Janice to drink to level herself out, prior to walking out the door. Encouraging an alcoholic to drink? Fantastic idea. She does, and gets absolutely sozzled. This in turn leads to the worst point; the unimaginable; the horror of the novel: Janice inadvertently drowns their new baby in the bathtub trying to get it clean. When reading this part of the novel, the thought that Janice’s actions are actually attributable to Rabbit, rather than Janice, was certainly at the forefront of our mind. How much can one person take? But Rabbit, of course, does not accept this: rather, he blames her. It is not his fault; none of it is - which renders him loathsome and contemptible.
At the funeral of his child, Rabbit cannot handle it. He flees again. You read that correctly, to make matters worse, he runs out on his own child’s funeral. All the way, ultimately, back to Ruth. and this sets up the denoument which by now can be seen coming.
Despite Ruth hating him by this point, despite her ordering Rabbit out of her apartment (we said she was the intelligent one) she confides in Rabbit that she is pregnant. He makes grand promises to her, saying he will marry her and provide for their child. He insists on going out to get groceries for her.
And as soon as he hits the street…. he is off running again. This is how the book closes. The basketball ace sets his life in flames and runs from every single responsibility he’s had; despite getting multiple chances at second starts.
One extremely clever use of character in the book is the deployment of Nelson, Rabbit’s almost three year old son. Nelson is a questioner, an ‘indignant observer’ as Updike calls him, of his father’s actions. And he is clearly intelligent, and insightful, and loveable. Updike really understood how to render children to capture the moral voice of the audience. Nelson adores his dad. Why wouldn’t he, at that age? Through the use of Nelson’s careful questioning ‘mommy sick?’ etc, Rabbit’s scruples (such that there are) as well as the reader’s sympathy are drawn to the ethical issues in the story.
There are several themes to detect throughout the novel, including personal responsibility; the repercussions of impulsive decisions; the disillusionment with the American dream; the struggle to find one's identity in an alienating world; and the tension between societal expectations and individual desires. But these aren’t enough to save Rabbit as a character.
Usually, to love an anti-hero we need some redeeming feature. A trait that we can like, cling on to, even, despite everything our protagonist does. Harry Flashman, of the Flashman novels for instance, was a racist, a cad, a bully, a toady and a coward. But he did love his country, and his wife. Sal Paradise, of On The Road may have been only out for a good time, but he loved his friends, and aunt, and supported them. But in Rabbit’s case, there aren’t any redeeming features. And the beauty of the prose, and the fact that Rabbit is a surrogate for the American zeitgeist at the time (and in future novels in the series, will go on to reflect the respective periods the novels are published in) isn’t enough to save him from the fact that he is simply awful.
Rabbit Run is beloved perhaps because of Rabbit’s shortcomings, and the difficulty a reader may have in liking him. It is, after all, a character-driven novel that offers a bleak and unflinching portrayal of Rabbit's internal turmoil, and the consequences of his actions on those around him. It does not shy away from depicting the complexities of human nature and the difficulties of finding a sense of purpose in a world that often feels devoid of meaning. Ultimately, the novel paints a picture of a man who is constantly searching for something beyond his grasp, making choices that may lead to momentary escapes, but leaving him feeling lost and dissatisfied.
Rabbit's journey might be seen as a reflection of the broader human condition, highlighting the struggles and contradictions that many individuals face as they navigate the complexities of life. But that complexity, when brought to life in the character of Rabbit, can be too much for a reader to bear. The capriciousness is too harsh. The selfishness is too much.
Both Rabbit and Rabbit Run ultimately misses the moral lessons they might have to be taught, and provide by employing such a nasty protagonist - one that was difficult to generate any sympathy for.
Thanks for Reading! Before you go…
Read Our Catalogue of Long Form Literary Criticism
If you like long form literary criticism, be sure to check out our previous reviews:
Booker Prize Winner Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea
Booker Prize Winner Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of The Day ,
Pulitzer Prize and Nobel Prize for Literature winner Saul Bellow’s Humboldt’s Gift,
Breakout Australian Novelist Amy Taylor’s Search History
Miles Franklin Award Nominee Robbie Arnott’s Limberlost
Or see of our full range of literary criticism in our archive.
Subscribe to The Latent Book Club for free
A fan of Updike? Make sure you don’t more reviews and other great recommendations and analysis by subscribing, for free, to The Latent Book Club.