928 about John Updike. And 9,785 by John Updike. (More, if I could find several apparently-lost volumes. If I lent you an Updike at some point, you've had it too long and I would like it back now please.)

To be able to count the number of pages of Updike that litter my house is possible only because I gave up cigarettes last year, and subsequently too my subscription to the New Yorker, because without smoking-and-reading time on the porch, my magazines were piling up unread. But while it lasted, how wonderful a surprise it always was, no matter how frequent, to flip open a fresh issue and find the name of my favorite author atop a long article somewhere toward the back, and wonder if he were the anonymous writer of a short piece nearer the front.