The raw and the cooked jim harrison pdf

Harrison writes with enough force to make your knees buckle and with infectious zeal that makes you turn the pages hungry for more. Call him bigger than life or overbearing, Jim Harrison has staked out a distinctive place in the world of food writing. Food, in this context, is more than food: It is a metaphor for life. His passion is infectious. By virtual of talent, Mr. Harrison would sit at the same table as A.

Jim said it was vanity, that he wanted to show it could be done, because he was a young writer and hungry. That was in A few years later, when I was starting to work with him, I asked if his editor had tried to do something with that first sentence. Jim did little revising and was proud of it. As for editors, why should he let them fool with his choices? They were not, as he had explained to me when we first met, writers. It was the foot Jim liked to get off on, and, sure enough, we tangled over copy our first time around.

There he caught a connecting flight to Charles de Gaulle, and then a train to Burgundy. It was almost spring in Patagonia, Arizona, where he had spent the last 25 years in refuge during the months when Montana got too cold and snowy. Which is understandable. In younger author photos, he had the athletic build and Midwestern grace of a Ditka linebacker, often sporting a dark mustache and always a cigarette below it. One memorable image captures a confident young sportsman in overalls, arms spread out as though crucified between the haunch and withers of a large brown mare. He moved as if underwater, slow and wise and obviously old, with the long white beard of an Old Testament patriarch, wispy gray hair, and the kind of smokey eyes that swallow light, like little ghosts below what could only be called owlish eyebrows. But none of this is what I or anyone else new to the Wagon Wheel that afternoon would have noticed about Harrison—rather, it was his ass.