Rivers of Memory by Harry Middleton
My review
rating: 4 of 5 stars
Harry Middleton has been a favorite author of mine since the early 1990s, when I first read his book, The Earth is Enough. His ability to evoke emotion and memory is incredible. It is unfortunate that such a great voice in fly fishing literature became silent so young. Harry Middleton was 43 when he suffered a fatal heart attack. He left behind a treasury of five books, with Rivers of Memory his last. It was written after he lost his job as writer and editor at Southern Living magazine.
To make ends meet he worked three menial labor jobs: at a shoe factory, as a shelf-stocker and on the back of a garbage truck. He started his first job at 8:00AM and finished his last job after midnight each day. Because of the writing habit he developed as a boy living with his grandfather and great uncle on a down-and-out farm in the Ozark Mountains, and throughout his life, he continued to write each night, from midnight until 4:00AM. He would then try to sleep from 4:00 until his job at 8:00. It is from these writings that the memories for this book emerge.
There is a melancholic thread woven throughout the book, whether on purpose or because of the circumstances for the genesis of the book. Harry Middleton suffered from depression and most of his work seems to reflect that. This book is not in and of itself depressing, there is just a background glimmer of despondency in the author that comes through. But I like music written in the minor chords. I listen to the blues. I like the northern coast of California and its dark waters and fog. So this darkness that comes through doesn’t bother me, in fact it draws me to it. Maybe it is better to say that Harry Middleton’s writing is haunting. Indeed, if any writing comes close to depicting Norman Maclean’s famous line, “I am haunted by waters,” it is Middleton’s.
Harry’s dreams and memories throughout this book are water-focused, and mostly fishing related. These memories become a balm in his rough times. One such memory is his grandfather’s creek, which “stirred me then, when I was a boy, long ago and far away; it stirs me still, running with its same endless energy and wonder through the gray-blue folds of my brain, the geography of my memory and imagination. …Such places are in me, deep and sure, the vital map of my dreams and wishes, desires and recollections. I simply let them rise, the rivers and trout of yesteryear, let them flood my blood and mind with their inexorable immediacy, things as they are, not preordained or foreordained, but simply alive and in motion.”
Here is a man who was not only haunted by waters, but addicted to them. In fact, through the pieces in the book it is evident that wild waters and wild trout were more than addiction, they were his lifeblood.
On a technical side note, I generally quite enjoy Middleton’s prose. This time through the book (my third), I thought I would be a bit more picky in looking at his writing. I did notice at times a heavy dose of modifiers, such as: “It was lying in the shallow blue-green water of a small, cool stream trilling innocently below a canopy of lush green jungle.”
There are instances of the pathetic fallacy as well: merciless days; ruthless heat; unforgiving wind; brooding shadows.
His use of repetition in “To the Bone” enhanced the piece because of the anticipation that the piece was about, yet at times was almost too much (I’m still debating with myself): “I drink endless cans of cold root beer and try not to look at the water but through it, down below the shallow surface, down into its whirl of refracted sunlight, folded shadows, darting shadows….” Several paragraphs in a row have this type of repetition which builds up to the point of potential overkill.
I’m not sure (because it has been a few years since reading his other books), but some of these stories are also covered in his other books. I don’t think they are directly lifted from them, but if you have read his other books you will recognize a couple of the events in this book.
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