Wolf: A False Memoir

by Jim Harrison

Jim Harrison's first novel--a walk on the wild side from "a force of nature in American letters" ( The Seattle Times ).

The New York Times- bestselling author of thirty-nine books of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry--including Legends of the Fall , Dalva , and Returning to Earth --Jim Harrison was one of our most beloved and acclaimed writers, adored by both readers and critics. Praised as "a raunchy, funny, swaggering, angry, cocksure book," Wolf tells the story of a man who abandons Manhattan after too many nameless women and drunken nights, to roam the wilderness of northern Michigan, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the rare wolves that prowl that territory ( The New York Times Book Review ).

"When you turn the last page and Swanson's voice stops, you want to flip back and keep listening." -- The Examiner

Genres: Fiction, Literature, American, Outdoors, Nature, Novels, Contemporary

Paperback

First published January 1, 1971

About the author

Jim Harrison was born in Grayling, Michigan, to Winfield Sprague Harrison, a county agricultural agent, and Norma Olivia (Wahlgren) Harrison, both avid readers. He married Linda King in 1959 with whom he has two daughters.

Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name. See this thread for more information.

His awards include National Academy of Arts grants (1967, 68, 69), a Guggenheim Fellowship (1969-70), the Spirit of the West Award from the Mountain & Plains Booksellers Association, and election to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences (2007).

Much of Harrison's writing depicts sparsely populated regions of North America with many stories set in places such as Nebraska's Sand Hills, Michigan's Upper Peninsula, Montana's mountains, and along the Arizona-Mexico border.

Reviews

[David Veloz · Rating 3 out of 5]

I began Wolf a few days after Harrison died. I’d read it before in graduate school, but thanks to what I’m now calling ‘therapeutic amnesia’ it felt mostly new. It’s too bad — I think a review from the 26 year old me would be more enthusiastic. Had I been 26 in 1971 when this book was originally published, my review might have consisted of little more than expletives and exclamation points.

Harrison acknowledges his first novel isn’t one in the subtitle: “A False Memoir.” Coming around the same time as the New Journalism of the late 60s began to coalesce into the Creative Nonfiction of the late 70s, the subtitle might seem provocative, but I think it’s actually more of a warning. Harrison isn’t concerned with classification or genre — he’s just writing a tale that doesn’t involve any of the structural hallmarks of an actual story, and he does it pretty well.

The reviews for Wolf called it lusty and cocksure, the recollection of a young man’s “swordsmanship” (thanks, New York Times) from coast to coast between 1956 and 1960, surveying the decadence and decay of the American landscape from the vantage point of a camping trip deep in the Michigan woods where the writer, Swanson, now 33, ostensibly is hoping to see a wolf before the species becomes extinct.

What I read is different: the self-induced struggles of an overeducated arrogant young man with enough sense not to starve to death, but only just. He’s a restless middle-class dilettante who doesn’t go on the road so much as roll himself in front of traffic to see what happens. And when he does bottom out, he can call home and have money wired to get him out of a jam. Young Swanson is cruel to women, high-minded, arrogant, unreflective, and aimless. Older Swanson seems to have calmed down some, but he’s become more reductive: the natural world is where it’s at, and everybody but him seems destined to fuck it up. He’s also an alcoholic and a serious candidate for lung cancer, but he doesn’t see that yet.

That’s what I mean about wishing I read this when I was younger than Swanson, when I had the same luxury and propensity to toss around cutting judgements and sweeping indictments of the world that somehow magically absolved me at the same time. This feels like a young man’s book written in a young time. So much freedom, so little terror. And it’s all the more a shame because almost every sentence in Wolf is brilliant. Harrison had already started to find his voice, his style: his sentences feel plain & conversational, but in truth he’s a careful craftsman, writing vivid scenes full of surprising music.

[Jonfaith · Rating 3 out of 5]

Barring love I'll take my life in large doses alone--rivers, forests, fish, grouse, mountains. Dogs.

During my 20s a friend was reading Whitman, one night walking home from the pub where he worked he decided to swim in a pond under the stars--he nearly drowned. A few months later (or possibly years) I went hiking and found myself lost on a logging road, a couple miles above the park as the sun melted away for the night. I wandered, a bit panicked. Then I heard coyotes and I decided to head for the headlights I saw on the horizon. I walked through row after row of brambles but was not eaten. I made it to the state highway and then backtracked to the park.

I thought of both those events when I began reading this. I have family connections to both Harrison and Michigan's Upper Peninsula. This "false memoir" is a portrait of that urge in one's 20s to walk about. The details here are a penis and liver in the woods looking for a wolf. I was not impressed with the first half of the book. That changed in the final third, a flourish of images seasoned with emotion. It wasn't until very recently that I discovered that Harrison was initially a poet. I have read a handful of novellas, stories and his food writings. This wasn't very different until it was.

[Rémy Macca · Rating 4 out of 5]

Premier roman de Jim Harrison et première franche réussite:) J'ai lu du même bonhomme Légendes d'Automne(1979), Dalva(1988) et Une Odyssée Américaine(2008). Tous ces romans et novellas m'ont beaucoup plu et leurs qualités étaient déjà en germe dans ce Wolf de 1971 aux effluves autobiographiques:)

Swanson est un homme de 33 ans porté sur le whisky, les femmes et les forêts. Ses ambitions professionnelles sont minimes et il passe de petit boulot en petit boulot tout en essayant d'écrire ou du moins peut-on le penser. Il part pour un périple d'une semaine dans les monts Huron et ce faisant il se raconte par flash-backs qui sont autant de bribes et de morceaux d'un passé en lambeaux épars.

Harrison a mis beaucoup de lui-même dans ce roman mais ce n'est pas une autobiographie. De même le récit de Swanson a peut-être des velléités littéraires et on ne sait pas toujours si ses digressions sont des créations ou si elles font référence à des faits avérés:)

Quoi qu'il en soit le roman est puissant, et, de par cette forme qui fait sans arrêt l'aller-retour entre passé et présent au détour d'une sensation qui ravive le souvenir, terriblement efficace. On finit par être pris dans un flux de souvenirs qui n'est pas sans rapport avec les rivières et lacs où se baigne Swanson.

C'est aussi une célébration bien particulière de la nature que je rapproche du Big Sur de Jack Kerouac. La nature n'y est pas idéalisée et elle est parfois très hostile, enfin elle vit sa vie propre, mais elle est aussi catalyseur du souvenir, et refuge d'un homme blessé et un peu paumé:) blessé et paumé parfois de façon bien volontaire.

Swanson est cet homme, et d'ailleurs tous les hommes, qui ne savent pas ce qu'ils veulent être et ont une constante envie de partir, puis de revenir, et de ce fait, sont toujours frustrés et mal à l'aise partout, comme inadaptés. Il a eu des aventures sentimentales et sexuelles( Bukowski es-tu là ? :) mais toutes ont été soit courtes, soit incomplètes, soit encore l'affaire d'une nuit ou d'une partie de jambes en l'air sans plus d'attaches.

Wolf, c'est le portrait d'un homme qui est aussi porteur d'un lourd passé, qui a connu des drames familiaux mais qui est comme étranger à ses racines et à ses parents, tout en ayant de l'affection et des souvenirs bien précis d'eux. Wolf, c'est le roman de la mémoire familiale et affective qui revient lancinante et ô combien tangible sans qu'on ne le demande.

Le roman est également traversé de mille interrogations politiques, philosophiques( entre deux bourbons:), écologiques...humaines enfin. Pour moi cela fonctionne très bien et est fort intéressant.

C'est enfin une réflexion un rien désabusée sur le passage du temps, l'éphémère de toute chose, l'intangible des relations humaines, sur la solitude, la puissance de la nature et son côté " rédempteur", la permanence du souvenir et l'insatisfaction de l'Homme, toujours en quête et toujours en mouvement.

Je ne donne pas 5 étoiles car les thèmes ont été abordés avant et de façon magistrale par Kerouac notamment. Reste que cette lecture a été excellente et qu'Harrison me parle définitivement:)

Pour aller plus loin:

Voir Into the Wild de Sean Penn(2007)/ Gerry(2002) de Gus Van Sant pour l'errance et le "retour à la nature".

Lire Big Sur(1962) de Jack Kerouac/ Souvenirs d'un pas Grand-chose(1982) de Charles Bukowski.

Écouter After the Gold Rush(1970) de Neil Young.

[Larry Bassett · Rating 3 out of 5]

I think I read that this may have been the first book published by this author in 1971. The audible version that I listen to was not done until 2019. I think the audible version has done quite well as the reader sounds just like you would imagine the author might’ve wished.

The short book is the meanderings of a young man from East Coast to West Coast. And yet he never seems mentally to be outside of a camping trip and hike in northern Michigan. From New York City to San Francisco he seems that any moment to be able to toss off his clothes and dive into some Michigan body of water.

Buy some standard the main autobiographical character that we watch galumph through young life is not particularly admirable. But though the language in the book is occasionally crude it is also simultaneously surprisingly poetic. I understand the author wrote poetry proceeding this first move into writing.

[Li · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm on the final few pages, which is enough to be able to write my review. Jim Harrison's, "Wolf: A False Memoir" has an interesting format. It shifts back and forth from present to memoir. The present has Jim camping out in a northern area of Michigan, trying to catch a glimpse of a wolf in the wild, which he feels will send him an important message from the cosmos. The present is linear and has what I have to belief are genuine "foxfire" tips. This part is interesting in and of itself. The memoir sections are interspersed and in stream of consciousness, a Jack Kerouacesque romp across the country. Where Kerouac leans more towards eastern philosophical meditations, Jim's trips focus more on drinking too much, bedding various wenches, and avoiding anything with even a slight whiff of permanence or commitment. Underlying this and that are an educated man's search for significance. Alcohol pours itself on most pages. Lots of commentary on environmentalism. What compels the reader onward are the brash, at times scorching, always brilliant observations on human nature and how the writer's experiences have shaped them.

"Wolf: A False Memoir" is a short book so it doesn't take up much time. The "false" part of the title is wry, as they are unquestioningly based upon actual experiences; however there is some skill involved in how the writer has interwoven fictions used during his encounters with others.

[Jeffrey · Rating 5 out of 5]

Superb.

I still remember stumbling onto my first Jim Harrison book. Wolf: A False Memoir. I can't imagine another author ever having as much reverence as he does to me. Prior to Harrison being The Man, John Steinbeck held the title.

When I worked as a lumber yard foreman, I used to frequent a dusty used bookstore next to the Denver University campus. A serviceable cafe was within walking distance with pretty university girls who would never give me the time of day; me smelling and looking like a poor workingman, but they were nice to leer at. The waitresses smelled like soap and french fries. Perfect butts, perky tits, and eyes that said 'you will never enter my life or my body without poetry, lies and a fat bank account.'

The book caught my eye because of the title. I was fascinated by wolves and viewed them as my totem animal. As soon as I started reading it I knew it would be a lifelong treasure. At times I felt he was writing about me and my feelings towards the world. A young man lost and despondent with no concrete leads on where to go in life. Burning bridges and spurning love in favor of wildness, lust, drugs, liquor and books. An old fishing rod rotting wherever I left it.

The book was lightly used and probably cost me a dollar or so. Now it is falling apart - having read and re-read it a dozen times. The pages are falling out, the pages dog-eared and worn. Multicolor ink where I underlined quote upon quote. The back inside cover as an index where I could easily re-find a quality quote about dogs or being in a heart wrenching pussy trance. It still smells like a good book should. The way a good library smells or the way bookstores used to smell when bookstores made sense.

Well, she's come undone. I need to replace that good book-friend of mine. It's almost like saying goodbye to a friend or a good dog whose time has passed.

[James · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is Harrison's first novel after writing a lot of poetry. To me, it had a feel like a late Beat poet. I kept imagining Kerouac in terms of the language, the themes, the time sensibilities. That said, the protagonist is a kind of angry young man, angry at the world, angry at himself and some of his language is sexist and very much of the time period (60's and 70's). I loved it, though I know it's not for everyone.

[Sissy · Rating 5 out of 5]

I love this book and think it should be more well known for what it is and represents. I share many feelings of the author and it is around 45 years later - that is the enduring spirit of literature. It was like an outdoorsy Bukowski who is less abusive and more oblivious about this relationships with women. There are several sections that are so good I could memorize the passages like classical poetry - even though they may be surrounding "modern" problems, ideas and feelings.

[Lassonnery · Rating 2 out of 5]

J’ai eu beaucoup de mal à accrocher, sûrement avec le style d’écriture que j’ai trouvé vulgaire et l’histoire qui revenait constamment sur les dérives alcoolisées d’un homme.

[Eric Sutton · Rating 3 out of 5]

I love Jim Harrison's writing - not only the meandering prose and hearty storytelling, but the nuggets of truth that seem to crop up and deliver a blow from seemingly nowhere. He's a Michigan treasure, though I'm sure other states would claim him as well, so vividly does he capture his landscapes, whether that's the Upper Peninsula, the Arizona desert, or, for the case of Wolf, New York and San Francisco too. I could tell this was his debut - born under incredible circumstances that, had they not happened, he may never have shared his genius with the world - as he forges his archetypal "Harrison hero": intelligent, countercultural, boozy, restless, searching. His novels are not necessarily stories to follow but journeys on which we ride. I lost touch often, only to be pulled back by a place referent or compelling piece of wisdom. No matter - it's a fun reading experience no matter what one takes from it. This trademark style would morph into the Brown Dog novellas and others of his wanderlust tales, and stay comfortably in the background of his more refined works like Legends and Dalva. Most of what he touches turns to gold, though some of the material hasn't aged well. Still, reading a writer fumbling through his first effort - which he hadn't planned on writing in the first place - especially having gone on to read so much of his later work, I enjoyed the novel despite its apparent flaws.

[Paul · Rating 2 out of 5]

When Jim Harrison has a story to tell, he can be one of the finest American writers of the past generation. (Legends of the Fall, The English Major, the Road Home.) When he does not, as in this book, he sounds like the drunk in the bar stool next to you who won't shut up. I may have like this book better when I was 20.

[Patrick McCoy · Rating 5 out of 5]

I had always head good things about Jim Harrison's writing and thought that it would be a good time to read something by him since he recently died. I was wondering where to start, Legends of the Fall seemed to obvious. Then I came across this article by a NY Times book critic I respect, Dwight Gardner. He lists the following as his personal favorites: "Wolf" (1971), “A Good Day to Die” (1973), “Farmer” (1976) and “Warlock” (1981). I decided I would start with the earliest on the list and if I liked it I would read the others in order. And when I saw that the quote preceding the text was from Julio Cortazar's Hopscotch, I figured I was in good hands-and I was. It is an atypical novel in that there is very little plot. The narrator is camping in the forests of Michigan hoping to come across the illusive wolf while he re-lives the last decade or so of his life which includes flashbacks to the locations of his wanderings such as Boston, the West, New York City, before coming Home. There is no theme or method to his wanderings, dissipation (drinking and smoking pot), meetings with various people as well as his interactions with women. Strangely it reminded me of the novels (despite the Henry Miller-like randiness of macho affectation throughout) of Renata Adler, which are also atypical novels with musings about modern life. Both are almost aphoristic in their musings as well. Needless to say, I expect this is the first of many Harrison novels that I will read.

[BRT · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is either a novelette of sheer literary genius or absolute prurient drivel, depending on the reader and how deeply it’s read and interpreted. It may also be one of those literary Emperors New Clothes , where if you want to appear intelligent, call it literary genius. It’s the purported stream of consciousness story of a young man of intelligence, creativity, and promise who, lost in alcohol, drugs, and random sex, takes himself off to the woods of the Huron Mountains in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It’s not for the easily offended because there’s a great deal of cold, impersonal sex, drug and alcohol use. However, even on a cursory reading there are social and psychological insights that are impressive. Sadly, I know a few lost young men like this who never outgrew their adolescent rapacious urges and who are unable to balance their intellectual ability with living daily life.

[M. Sarki · Rating 3 out of 5]

https://rogueliterarysociety.com/f/wo...

...There must be reasons why I seem to closet funerals and weddings and love affairs together: mortal accidents, simply the given on which a shabby structure may be subtracted or added…

I too have lumped funerals and weddings into the same boat. Neither appealing and both to be avoided at all costs, if possible. Unfortunately, life offers ample opportunities of this given on which a shabby structure may be subtracted or added. Wolf was not my first introduction to Jim Harrison. Most likely it was Sundog, but regardless, I knew in many ways I had discovered a kindred spirit. Fellow natives of Northern Michigan, Jim and I shared a love for the outdoors, animals, food, and women. Actually it was ultimately only one woman for both of us, but lust and sex covers the gamut of human experience. It is love that matters most, and Harrison and myself loved religiously by staying truly devoted to only one woman for a lifetime.

...It is strange to know a girl you can love without words, with whom language is only an interference…

The love of my life fits this bill. There have been countless instances when silence ruled, when nature prevailed, and the majesty of life cloaked its sense upon us. Sunsets, swims, and walks through the forest offered many opportunities to commune with nature. Even the last two years living full-time in a travel trailer has enriched our prior experiences.

...I could not dry out my brain long enough to regard any day with total focus. Others in my generation took drugs and perhaps expanded their consciousness, that was open to question, and I drank and contracted my brain into halts and stutters, a gray fist of bitterness…

And I did both, eventually turning to alcohol exclusively due to its social acceptance. But I was wrong. I should have chosen cannabis. All the terrible things that can be associated with my abuse of alcohol would never have happened. Perhaps I would have also had better focus as Harrison surmises.

...There is a constant urge to re-order memory—all events falling between joy and absolute disgust are discarded…

This is something I definitely agree with. My memory consists of only significant details which fall under the categories of extreme joy, fear, happiness, lust, pain, and whatever totally obsessed me.

...Billy maintained that as long as his wife balled for money it was OK but that if she ever went to bed with anyone for free it would be adultery…am one and over and above the average simplicities of love...monogamy usually involves retreat and cowardice.

I think Billy is right, and for a period of time we did consider as a couple doing something similar. But it remained only an idea and we never acted on it. But it was an interesting and entertaining concept that did enrich our lives.

...It's a matter of contention now who got fucked over the most, the blacks brought here as slaves or the Indians who were totally dispossessed…

After more than a century it seems that people of color are finally getting the attention to their plight after horrific recent police brutality, murder, and all the world marching to their defense. Native Americans have yet to get the justice they deserve. But the country, the world, seems to be moving in the right direction in spite of Covid19.

...We parted affably outside after Barbara arranged to shop with her mother the next day and off they went to the Pierre while we went back to the apartment and dog-fucked in front of the hall mirror…

This type of sentence above is to be expected in the writings of Jim Harrison. Sex acts so matter of fact and treated as natural instead of romantic. Harrison often produces a smile on my face as I envision his fiction.

...Nature doesn't heal, it diverts and because we are animals too all this silence is a small harmony…Barring love I'll take my life in large doses alone—rivers, forests, fish, grouse, mountains. Dogs…

Social distancing today due to Covid19 fits me to a T, however Jim Harrison enjoyed his social drinking so much he most likely would have perished from the virus. Better to have stayed in the woods or his writing studio. Or out hiking with his dog.

Consciousness is simply the kind of work I can't make a continuous effort at—a disease causing giddiness, brain fever, unhappiness.

Even though I am completely enamored with the personality and the writing of Jim Harrison, I am put off by his stream of consciousness memories in this book. Add that these remembrances alternate with the main plot regarding his present tense camping and hiking trip to the woods in search of a wolf. I am completely interested in the life of Jim Harrison but for me this precept fails to deliver. Revisiting this first novel by Jim Harrison was again for me not remarkable. The book however did cement his woodlands/tough guy personality that would persist throughout his writing career. And there is truth in this almost fabled persona. Harrison drank with the best of them, ate enormous and exotic meals, obsessively celebrated sex and the naked woman, and lived a life enriched by solitude and nature. Though obviously finding his voice, this first novel failed on a literary level. Too disjointed and unfocused. Harrison in proceeding works goes on to achieve high merits in both his enormous and remarkable collection, specifically within his fiction and nonfiction oeuvre. Though poetry was his first love, and what kept him sane, it is my contention that Harrison achieved far greater success with his prose.

[Ned · Rating 4 out of 5]

This was a tumble/jumble of thoughts as Harrison counts and recounts his life and regrets. He's not what is considered a naturalist so much as a lover of the primeval pure animas. When I read this book I remember from Legends of the Fall when Tristan used to live in the wild and return to town semiannually to gorge on food and women, then disappear again. Also remember he wanted a good death, e.g. getting eaten by a bear.... Hemingwayesque for sure, but without all the pretense / self importance...

[Nick · Rating 5 out of 5]

‘Barring love I'll take my life in large doses alone —rivers, forests, fish, grouse, mountains. Dogs.’

[Grace Camille · Rating 2 out of 5]

Much later, after I had taken her home and returned to the cabin, I thought that I had never had great pleasure with so little thought, that all of what occurred had done so in a sensual haze interrupted only by drinks of cold water and a few cigarettes. It is strange to know a girl you can love without words, with whom language is only an interference. (29)

A diversion or digression here: loving openly and nearly the beloved.

Later on, not even much later on in life, one misses this sense of life horribly. So absent when we are merely glands with small brutish brains attached. Loving as if we were fictional creatures, geometrical, pure, diamonds to be looked at through many clear and open facets, but still human; the throat constricts, the tear glands overwhelm, and the world is tactile and fresh again and we return to it over and over, willfully recapturing a beautiful but senseless dream. (54)

For years now I've found the earth haunted. Azoological beasts rage in untraceable configurations. They are called governments. Wounds that never heal made on every acre and covered with the scar tissue of our living presence. The argument at bedrock: I don't want to live on earth but I want to live.(102)

A succession of not very interesting nervous breakdowns. The reading of perhaps a few thousand books and the absorption of no wisdom at all from them. (138)

I would spend the night watching the moon bury herself in the water and wish I were elsewhere, even on the moon in a space vehicle while she buried herself in the lake. Drowned on the waterless moon. (179)

Nature doesn't heal, it diverts and because we are animals too all this silence is a small harmony. I once thought there were only two natural courses for a man, savior or poet; now at its vulgarest level either voting or not bothering to, I don't care about anyone's problem only the occasional luminescence we offer to each other. (192)

I don't want anyone to adopt my mannerisms, or opinions. If I had those instincts I'd run for office. My interests are anachronistic- fishing, forests, alcohol, food, art, in that order. Kropotkin is fine but Nechayev is too programmatic. I don't think I'm meant to be a part of anything or to raise my hand and ask a question. (215)

[Jeff P. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Harrison’s writing is so good, he can win you over through sheer quality and wit, despite the content. This bastard romantic, who must be so close to Harrison himself torpedoes any chance for stability or love or comfort in exchange for authentic experience in service of his art.

I’m reminded of something Townes Van Zandt said, probably in Be Here To Love me. I can’t remember the quote, but essentially what I got from it was that he had to live his life in a certain way to be able to write the kinds of songs he wanted to write, authentically. He had to truly suffer to write about true suffering. He tells a specific story about leaning out a window and wanting to know what it felt like to reach that point of no return, to find the edge, and realizing the only way to find it is to go beyond it and fall out the window. And that’s what he did. I did find this quote from him, which I believe references the same idea: “I don't envision a very long life for myself. I think my life will run out before my work does. I've designed it that way.”

I’m also reminded of a Seinfeld bit about knowledge being pain. To paraphrase: “When you stub your toe, that feeling is knowledge entering your body.” I think that is what Harrison/Swanson do as well, they throw themselves out of windows in search of truth.

[Bob · Rating 4 out of 5]

Raw, Gruesome, Blunt, No Filter. This book was referred to me by a friend. It is a hidden gem and I found the mixture of first person wilderness adventure and "On the Road" type of travels interesting. I have done a lot of traveling in my 30's, even now in my early 40's. I found many parts of this book relatable, minus the man-whore type lifestyle described in this book. I also enjoyed the Michigan connection, it is my home state. I have also spent time in the same Huron Mountain range, I have also heard the coyotes, wolfs and other animals at night while camping deep into the same area as described in this book.

My only criticism of this book, sometimes he rambled a bit between meaningful stories and the constant philandering became mundane at times. I am leaning more to a 3.5 star review of this book.

This is my first introduction to Harrison and he is a fantastic writer. I found some similarities to Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, and maybe Hunter S Thompson, but I think he is more raw of a writer than both of those. He takes things a little further than those writers. Is that good or bad?

[S.B. Harrison · Rating 2 out of 5]

I thought I’d give this 3 stars the entire time but the ending was so disappointing it’s getting two. The whole book was disappointing and so not what I was hoping for. THERE WASN’T A SINGLE WOLF! Really very little nature as well. This was a semi-real memoir about a pretentious, Jack Kerouac wannabe who had absolutely nothing interesting to say. It reminded me of On the Road and Dharma Bums if those books were bad. There’s no Dharma, just bums, no interesting beatnik stories, just drunken stupidity that honestly was frustrating. It’s like a stream of consciousness recording of a wasted drunken life. The whole book is just semi-chronological vignettes about drunken sex, thinking about sex drunk, hitchhiking, so much hitchhiking, being a poor, homeless bum, and hiking in the woods talking about fish and birds. Those parts were okay but were boring. Some of the parts were entertaining and funny but overall it felt very fake. Did I mention there wasn’t a single wolf? The end turned into him talking about his family and visiting his grandma. Such a letdown but I’m proud of myself for finishing it.

[Juhi · Rating 2 out of 5]

sexist, crude, and trite. surprised after reading and really enjoying The Woman Lit By Fireflies. seems like all the books in this genre (monologue by a lonely pathetic man) published during the 'sexual revolution' of the '70s and '80s in America are basically the same: circling between alcohol abuse, the majesty of the natural world, and the objectification of women. I racked my brain trying to come up with a reason to believe that the dislikable Swanson offered any literary merit as a character, but I came up short. the only argument is that this is a historical portrait of a man and a time that I hope is long-gone, for many reasons. I'd be surprised if any self-respecting man could get through this book without feeling uncomfortable. past my disagreement with this book on an intellectual-principle level, I just don't find it very interesting. a lot of jumbled words in each sentence masquerading as a deep and interesting thought; if you don't read too closely perhaps you'd be fooled. I expected more from Jim Harrison. I will read Dalva — hoping it's better.

spoiler: he doesn't see a wolf.

[John Brewer · Rating 3 out of 5]

I should begin by saying that Jim Harrison is one of my favorite writers. He is one of a rare breed of writers that excels in multiple areas of literature. 'Legends of the Fall' remains one of my all-time favorite works of prose, 'In search of Small Gods' is brilliant poetry and, to top it off, 'A Really Big Lunch' is one of the two or three best pieces of food writing I have ever read. When you have read an author for some time, it can be an interesting experience to encounter some of his earlier works. 'Wolf' is Harrison's first novel and, while worth a read, his literary infancy shows. It lacks the self-deprecating humor of his best works, as well as the nuance of some of his best characters. This is especially true of his female protagonist who lack dimension and development that make them as interesting as those found in later works. Reading 'Wolf' you can hear echos of the voice that would rise to a roar in 'Legends of the Fall' and the Brown Dog Novellas but is struggling to be heard in 'Wolf.'

[Jim Laughren · Rating 4 out of 5]

Thanks for the ride, Jim. Through the years I've read various works by Harrison. Though he's never been my favorite author - I think mostly due to subject matter - I've always enjoyed his writing style and sensibilities. I picked up Wolf shortly after his recent death, as much to honor his memory as to take a look at one of the high points of his early career. The man was a damned good writer and a person with an enviable relationship with nature, and an interesting relationship with people. He's of a generation that included Bukowski and Roth, Steinbeck and Vonnegut. And it shows. Read the book; it's good. Soul searching of a high order contrasted with the ultimate practicality. He was, I dare say, the last of the Hemingways.

[Peter Bridgford · Rating 4 out of 5]

A friend suggested this book to me, and I appreciate them enough to go right out and buy a copy. I read the book during this last summer, in a perfect locale to take in a book and savor it. I really, really liked the book, but I cannot say I loved it. That being said, I am going to hold onto my copy and try rereading it again someday - there feels like something in it I can't quite grasp right now. But I can tell it's important. Do you know what I mean? The way the story floats through time and places is jarring, but intriguing. The overt sexuality of the stories was wonderfully shocking, but then I am not sure how to process those scenes with the one about being in the woods. It is a book that leaves its mark upon you.

[Kim Hoag · Rating 3 out of 5]

I have always enjoyed the storywriting of this author. Writing of first peoples, nature, human awareness and the soul so clearly that both your perceptions and your heart are touched. This one, however, didn't do that for me. This was his first book (1971) and it reads like it. A young man on sex and booze (simply because he can, I guess) ends up in the wilderness hoping to spot a wolf. But he cannot (or will not) leave the memories behind. There seems to be no growth, realizations, or definitive decisions made by the main character. The book has all of Harrison's trademarks but they are not yet fleshed out. Well, you have to start somewhere, and this is a decent beginning that will in time produce the great Legends of the Fall, the Brown Dog novellas, and others.

[Colin · Rating 3 out of 5]

I've been really enjoying working my way through all of Jim Harrison's books and this was his very first one. I actually really enjoyed the book but I will say this one maybe leaned towards the drugs/sex/"beat" type stuff more than I was interested in. Harrison is a really interesting mix between Hemingway and Kerouac but is also completely his own thing. Part of that thing is that he liked to live. He liked to eat, have sex, do drugs, drink wine, and walk around in the woods. These are all good things but his later stuff got more interesting than this semi-autobiographical first book when he wrote actual fiction.

[Henry DeForest · Rating 4 out of 5]

Definitely not my favorite Harrison book. This book felt more misanthropic and cynical than Harrison's other works, which already suffer to varying degrees from these traits. But, I did enjoy the way this book played with boundaries, from reality to fiction (Harrison to Swanson), past to present, actually happening to fantasy, etc. Additionally, there were some images painted which had some real heart, such as the scene with the child in the wagon with dandelions. Not his best overall, but still pretty good.

[Thad · Rating 2 out of 5]

This was my first attempt at Harrison, and I left it disappointed. Judging from some of the reviews of others, and from Harrison's overall fame and success, perhaps his other works deserve a try. I may be being unfair to the author, but I felt like maybe Harrison was trying to hard to write like, well, Harrison. I found this book (more specifically, it's protagonist) to be unnecessarily dark, depressed, and a bit depraved. If you cannot get enough of Harrison, then you should probably read it. If you are just curious, I'd suggest one of his more popular books.

[Andrew Pitkin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Reaffirms why I loved Jim Harrison's 'Legends of the Fall':

A tight, densely packed, yet flowing and accessible narrative that you love, making you laugh, cry, bemoan, stare - and all the fuzzy feelings in between.

This has given me reason to revisit Harrison's work because he is a foremost Nature writer, akin but different to Annie Dillard and Henry Thoreau. Dense philosophy packed into entertainment. What more could you ask of a read?

[Taryn · Rating 1 out of 5]

No no no no no! After a dozen or so racist comments, I was done. This book falls in the Will Never Finish category and for the first time ever, I'm considering a book burning. The plot is non-existent and the main character is unlikeable. I was interested in the description of someone wanting to get away to the Upper Peninsula of my home state in Michigan, but now I wish my state wasn't associated with this.