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[The Jim Harrison Papers]

Jim Harrison, Off to the Side: a Memoir
Atlantic Monthly Press

reviewed by Sean Aden Lovelace

Jim Harrison has often said he's horrible at titles. I'm not sure that's true (excluding his novel SunDog, neither of sun or dog, and possibly A Good Day to Die, which smacks of Elmore Leonard, or one of Sergio Leone's spaghetti westerns), but then again few writers have had such literary prolificacy (28 volumes and counting), and thus an ongoing need for titles. And so what of Harrison's 2002 memoir, Off to the Side? I suppose it depends on your definition of title. Is it a key to a door, or the door itself, opening into the rooms and hallways of a writer's memory? Or more a structural device, a textual map, guiding us along? Or is it simply a disarming introduction, a gesture of the hand, an invitation to pull up a chair and gather round the fire, to sit right by the storyteller—right off to the side.

I'd say the answer is yes.

The book does indeed begin with memory, section one, "Early Life," a brief review of parental courting, family life, Harrison's youthful days of fishing and hunting and scraping by in rural Michigan, and though admittedly a life of poverty— "catsup sandwiches" and "plates of beans"—never a hint of self-pity. Primarily through lively imagery and lyrical description (Harrison is also an accomplished poet), the author expresses a certain calm and simplicity in a caring family and rural environs. He writes of waking in the morning: "There had been a little rain in the night and I could smell the damp garden, the strong winey smell of the grape arbor, the bacon grease from the kitchen below." In short, his childhood embodies the poetic idyll, and Harrison never takes for granted this fortunate reality.

Yet, like childhood, Harrison's Eden quickly gives way to the pain of knowledge, and "Early Life" shifts in tone and mood. Off to the Side becomes a title of the artist's first identity as outsider, and this alienation is no garden variety adolescent angst—Harrison's abstract loss and longing can be traced to a concrete source. At age seven the author is partially blinded when a playmate jabs a glass bottle into his left eye, permanently disabling him. (Interestingly, the writer James Thurber also suffered a childhood blinding in one eye, and was likewise a prolific and imaginative writer.) Harrison must now adjust, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally as well. His perceptions change; his life now a type of inward synesthesia: "You have the idea you can actually hear color." Later, Harrison spends the money he has saved for months—$1200 earned at the rate of $1.50 per hour—on a quack physician who promises to repair his eyesight. Harrison's eyesight is not repaired; in fact, he is totally blinded for a time, as he feels a "hot nail in my eyeball." To put it plainly, he feels foolish, hopeless, and alone. He yearns for escape, "for the places you read about..." And so he leaves his home, and childhood, behind.

Section Two of Off to the Side is clearly segmented, a sometimes forced arrangement of heavily modified deadly sins, the modification a bit ironic (and playful—a Harrison trait), in that the sin is to omit these activities from a full life. Harrison labels these topics as "Seven Obsessions." At this point, the book's title might refer to a whiskey chaser on the side (obsession one: alcohol), a woman on the side (strippers), a sidearm, or sidearm cast (hunting and fishing), a spiritual side (private religion), a side of roast pheasant and truffles (a tour of France), the side of a highway shoulder (the road), or possibly an empathetic and holistic side (nature and natives). To summarize this delightful section of writing would be akin to wading through one of Harrison's famous (or infamous) 37 course gourmet meals, yet I would implore the reader to never dismiss the seriousness the author allows these sensory pursuits. Each "obsession" is followed with insightful reflection, its demerits and merits, even the likely consequences of excess. All of Harrison's activities—from the primarily hedonistic to the often spiritual—are undertaken with one purpose: "a willingness to be conscious."

Memory knows no true chronology, and the final section, "The Rest of Life," is an often random medley of recollections: some tragic, some elated, some a bit repetitive, some fresh and startling. We get the soaring events of Harrison's first literary success, and also the sodden (and brief) days of his teaching in academia. We experience yet another sudden act of devastating violence, a list of the author's pernicious phobias, but then gentle, often intimate, reflections on the role of husband and father. We eavesdrop on the intellectual subtleties (and often intriguing arguments about the state of writing today) of living among artists such as Brautigan, Auden, Lowell, Capote, and Ginsberg, but also the freewheeling immediacy (as in partying) of Harrison's screenwriting days in Hollywood, with the likes of Orson Welles, Jack Nicholson, Jimmy Buffett, Danny DeVito, and Sean Connery. (Harrison has been criticized for dropping names; and for mimicking the life of Hemingway, a man who was himself a celebrity. Both complaints are, of course, absurd. A writer of memoir has the right (the duty?) to mention his fellow human beings. And I've never understood an attack that uses a Nobel Laureate as its foundation.)

Memoir—if written with skill, care and seriousness—surpasses and transcends the life of any one writer. Jim Harrison's finest wisdom is found midway through: "What you get in life is what you organize for yourself every day." Well said, and yet another way of nudging the reader to embrace life, but never just with the physical, always with the cerebral along for the ride. Jim Harrison engages life in all its arenas, and then he writes what he sees and hears and touches and feels, with all of his considerable energy and ability, either head-on, or yes, Off to the Side. Yet another point of the book's title? Possibly. Does it matter? Possibly not, but you should, if paying attention, already know the answer; and you won't find it in a book review. Go outside, get the book, read it, and then you decide.