America lost one of its true literary masters when author John Updike died last week at the age of 76. Over the course of his prolific career, Updike published over 25 novels, including the renowned “Rabbit Angstrom” series, and many volumes of short stories, poetry, art and literary criticism.

Updike wasn’t a “cool” writer. Always appearing scholarly in classy suits and a boyish, close-cropped coif, the man didn’t possess the counter-culture iconography of a Kerouac or a Thompson. He didn’t profess to be seeking any deep universal truths or hedonistically drown himself in drugs and alcohol. Instead, he wrote almost nonstop, never hesitant to tackle unfamiliar media or subject matters.

It’s due to this lack of readily apparent cool factor or romance that Updike typically goes unnoticed by my collegiate peers who would rather have a favorite author who, donning a Hawaiian shirt and aviators, they can masquerade as during Halloween. This is a complete shame as Updike was an amazing wordsmith and the greatest observer of American suburban life in the post-war era.

In the “Rabbit” tetralogy, Updike chronicles three decades in the life of former high school basketball player Rabbit Angstrom in the fictional, mid-sized city of Brewer, Pa. Over the course of four sizable novels, Rabbit experiences the loss of loved ones, the 1960s, professional growth, the growth of his waistline, marital sex, adulterous sex and other universal situations.

Updike infuses these novels with unparalleled wit and a knack for capturing the essence of the mundane aspects of modern life. As I was reading these novels — back to back, mind you –, the depth and ambition of Updike’s vision of everyperson America made me feel as if I were growing old and stodgy along with the protagonist, able to keep up less and less with the rapid rate of change.

So if you consider yourself at all literarily inclined and have yet to experience Updike, do yourself a favor and pick up “Rabbit.”

Run, immediately.