Today, I read in The Oregonian, that one of my favorite writers, Jim Harrison, 78, had died. What a shitty way to start a Monday. He was gruff, tough, and a damn fine artist. Though we never met, I connected with him through his writing and my own background. His novels were pure and manly. I enjoyed learning the intricacies of trout fishing and the complexity of women. One can never know enough about either if they want happiness in life. I’ll miss him greatly. We never met, so goes it. I always wanted to but, out of respect, didn’t feel like showing up at his doorstep in Arizona or Montana uninvited. Isn’t that the way it always goes? I felt the same way about the writer Harry Crews…
I recently finished Harrison’s novel, The Big Seven, and can say this fine work was from a mind that wasn’t ready to check out. It was vital, filled of intelligence and male lust, two key ingredients in his literature.
Perhaps, he just couldn’t mend from a broken heart over his wife’s death, last year, I don’t know. How could 50 years of marriage just end without a dark hole and how could a writer go on without his best loved reader? Maybe he just wrote his last book and said, sayonara.
I’ll miss you, Mr. Harrison…
Thanks for all the great books!