When I finished The Witches of Eastwick, I felt as if I had stepped out of a storm that kept changing shape. Updike’s novel follows three women in a small Rhode Island town who discover their own strange power after their marriages fall apart. As I moved through the story, I kept feeling a mix of amusement and unease. The magic in the book never felt light to me. It carried weight, and I sensed the loneliness sitting under each spell.

I followed Alexandra, Jane, and Sukie as they tested their strength, and I caught myself smiling at their confidence. At the same time, I noticed how their freedom unsettled the town around them. Updike captured the texture of boredom, desire, and small town gossip in a way that made me pause more than once. I felt the tension build when Darryl Van Horne arrived, a man who stirred all their ambitions and insecurities at once. Watching their world bend around him left me uneasy, as if I could see a crack forming long before they did.

The story carried a rhythm I found hard to shake. I felt sympathy for the women even when their choices turned sharp. Their magic became a mirror for the emotions they tried to outrun. When the novel closed, I was left with a faint sadness and a sense that freedom can feel heavy, especially when the world keeps trying to shrink it.