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Sundog
Recovering from a fall down the face of a three-hundred-foot dam in South American, Robert Corvus Strang, a self-educated foreman who works on giant dam projects, recalls his hard but exhilarating life
244 pages, Paperback
Published February 1, 1991
About the author
Jim Harrison
185 books1,560 followersJim 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.
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.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 98 reviews
October 6, 2013
Our narrator is a journalist, but he is not the protagonist of this splendid novel. No, this is the story of Robert Corvus Strang, an epileptic who drove himself to the adventure of building bridges, dams and irrigation projects in far-flung lands. And there were, you know, women. It is the story, we are told, of a man totally free of the bondage of the appropriate.
(This is a state I aspire to, by the way, and feel at times that I have attained. However, when I'm there it doesn't seem to be deemed lofty; just, well, inappropriate.)
Strang warns us early: You better keep alert, I'm a bit of a fibber. Maybe. There are secrets and shadings, funhouse mirrors of meaning, but mostly it seemed truth rubbed raw. Strang is a man who does not need to lie.
There is an interesting visual structure to this book. The journalist tells the tale of his months-long interview of Strang as well as his own story in one font. He goes back to his cabin or hotel room and speaks to his recorder of his instant impressions; this in another font. And then he lets the tape recorder run as Stang tells his own story; this displayed in a third font.
We get here what (after three books now) I've come to expect from Harrison: fascinating, if damaged, characters in a minimal plot, seemingly designed to allow aphoristic thought in a lush language.
A man in love at first is ignorant in his passion that the woman involved can choose another option, or even that she might be entertaining another choice. ... Of course, to be pompous and wordy runs counter to the particulars of love. It takes years to get the distance to think it over, and what do you have then? You have distance and your thoughts.
And....
The trouble with television, movies, most novels, with the rarest exceptions, is that nothing is true to the life you have experienced, or true to a life you could conceivably comprehend: The pope conceals a bomb beneath his vestments that will blow up our president because the pope's hearing aid is controlled by the KGB, who also control the prez's harem of starlets with vaginas wired for sound; if the KGB pulls it off, the Arabs will give them fifty billion in free crude, plus this year's Canadian wheat harvest. That sort of thing.
And...
I set about making a "putanesca" sauce for pasta, a kind of Italian version of soul food that lifts the spirits of weary streetwalkers, not an inaccurate metaphor for journalism: the sauce includes sausage, wine, capers, anchovies, tomato paste, a liberal sprinkling of hot pepper flakes. When it was done and the pasta was nearly cooked, I opened my last bottle of Barbaresco. How can I convince anyone of the splendor of this breakfast when I ate it alone and shot back to bed?
I could be reading Jim Harrison all the time.
(This is a state I aspire to, by the way, and feel at times that I have attained. However, when I'm there it doesn't seem to be deemed lofty; just, well, inappropriate.)
Strang warns us early: You better keep alert, I'm a bit of a fibber. Maybe. There are secrets and shadings, funhouse mirrors of meaning, but mostly it seemed truth rubbed raw. Strang is a man who does not need to lie.
There is an interesting visual structure to this book. The journalist tells the tale of his months-long interview of Strang as well as his own story in one font. He goes back to his cabin or hotel room and speaks to his recorder of his instant impressions; this in another font. And then he lets the tape recorder run as Stang tells his own story; this displayed in a third font.
We get here what (after three books now) I've come to expect from Harrison: fascinating, if damaged, characters in a minimal plot, seemingly designed to allow aphoristic thought in a lush language.
A man in love at first is ignorant in his passion that the woman involved can choose another option, or even that she might be entertaining another choice. ... Of course, to be pompous and wordy runs counter to the particulars of love. It takes years to get the distance to think it over, and what do you have then? You have distance and your thoughts.
And....
The trouble with television, movies, most novels, with the rarest exceptions, is that nothing is true to the life you have experienced, or true to a life you could conceivably comprehend: The pope conceals a bomb beneath his vestments that will blow up our president because the pope's hearing aid is controlled by the KGB, who also control the prez's harem of starlets with vaginas wired for sound; if the KGB pulls it off, the Arabs will give them fifty billion in free crude, plus this year's Canadian wheat harvest. That sort of thing.
And...
I set about making a "putanesca" sauce for pasta, a kind of Italian version of soul food that lifts the spirits of weary streetwalkers, not an inaccurate metaphor for journalism: the sauce includes sausage, wine, capers, anchovies, tomato paste, a liberal sprinkling of hot pepper flakes. When it was done and the pasta was nearly cooked, I opened my last bottle of Barbaresco. How can I convince anyone of the splendor of this breakfast when I ate it alone and shot back to bed?
I could be reading Jim Harrison all the time.
December 4, 2011
When a customer remarked, as he was buying a copy of this book, that it was one of his all time absolute favorites, I was surprised at his enthusiasm. I had read Legends of the Fall, and retained only a hazy impression. My interest piqued, it shot to the top of by tbr list, and
a few weeks later, like a few days ago, I dived in.
This metaphor for the process of approaching a book and beginning to read it, is one that can easily be applied to almost any book (with the exceptions of course of those books you have to sidle your way into edgewise, and those you have to beat your way into with a club) but is particularly apt in this nested tale of waterways and huge projects involving the flow of water and the regulation of its force. From the opening paragraph of the authors note one is immediately submerged in the story within the story that takes place in the watery world of the michigan wilderness and in that swampy area where human relationships
often get bogged down.
The thematic device is a familiar one. An introduction outlining the curious or extraodinary circumstance that led to the writers involvement with a story he is compelled to share.Whether this authors note is authentic or part of the fiction is the first game. We are told quite early on that all the rules are suspended for the time being. We are given the pertinent details, an apologia of sorts, a caution, and then sprung into the story as it develops.
I won't say a thing about what happens. It's a story of place as much as character, told with a breathless intimacy and an urgent detachment that makes for a delightful reading experience. For me this was enhanced by my reading of Pahlaniuk recently. I detected a distinct echo of that authentic voice that seems to be emerging from the bsbrl.
Sundog (Contemporary ClassicsSundog (Contemporary Classics
a few weeks later, like a few days ago, I dived in.
This metaphor for the process of approaching a book and beginning to read it, is one that can easily be applied to almost any book (with the exceptions of course of those books you have to sidle your way into edgewise, and those you have to beat your way into with a club) but is particularly apt in this nested tale of waterways and huge projects involving the flow of water and the regulation of its force. From the opening paragraph of the authors note one is immediately submerged in the story within the story that takes place in the watery world of the michigan wilderness and in that swampy area where human relationships
often get bogged down.
The thematic device is a familiar one. An introduction outlining the curious or extraodinary circumstance that led to the writers involvement with a story he is compelled to share.Whether this authors note is authentic or part of the fiction is the first game. We are told quite early on that all the rules are suspended for the time being. We are given the pertinent details, an apologia of sorts, a caution, and then sprung into the story as it develops.
I won't say a thing about what happens. It's a story of place as much as character, told with a breathless intimacy and an urgent detachment that makes for a delightful reading experience. For me this was enhanced by my reading of Pahlaniuk recently. I detected a distinct echo of that authentic voice that seems to be emerging from the bsbrl.
Sundog (Contemporary ClassicsSundog (Contemporary Classics
July 20, 2020
https://rogueliterarysociety.com/f/su...
...This leaflet identifies the plant Aristolochia medicinalis, which is a native Venezuelan remedy for epilepsy and other seizures, and which helped give me insight into the core of Strang's unique personality. Whether he is still alive or not is obviously beyond our control, but not beyond our interest. I must somehow content myself with having known a man totally free of the bondage of the appropriate…
In the author’s note in the very beginning it is important to pay attention to the details regarding Robert Corvus Strang’s use of the herb Aristolochia medicinalis and how it may have affected his person, his thinking, and his behavior. It could very well be a vote for incorporating its use in our own lives even in light of Jim Harrison’s routine admittal in his memoirs and essay that he generally avoided all mind altering drugs. This is also not to say that Harrison’s abuse of alcohol and cocaine was in any way instructive or useful in the life he led into a severely advanced age. Eating and drinking himself to oblivion was certainly a plan on his plate and it is a wonder it never happened. And his well-reported extensive efforts to do so were also never mind expanding either. But Harrison obviously had both fortitude and resilience in spades.
...When Dad got really crazy on his deathbed, we helped him out to the porch to see the northern lights. He said the northern lights were the blood of Jesus streaming in the firmament, which even scared the hell out of me…
Jim Harrison was himself admittedly once headed for the ministry. Of course, that motivation did not stand and he instead went on to his illustrious and overindulging career as writer, teacher, sex fiend, outdoorsman, Epicurean gourmet, and literary icon. I cannot imagine Harrison as a preacher with the unrelenting literary libido and vivid imagination he possessed. It may have however been quite entertaining to be a fellow parishioner in his church. I remember liking this novel very much the first time I read it, but this particular instance began not quite as grandly as my previous endeavor. I have since read much more of Harrison’s work and today hold others more affectionately. This is not to say that Sundog will not remain a memorable work. In fact, it is hard to forget.
...Sexually, the U.P. was a sensory deprivation tank. That's why they sedated themselves with booze, my own special poison, and what a friend called “the writer's black lung disease.” The moment you left any settlement up here you were smack-dab in the middle of the forest. In the old days there were nymphs and bacchantes in the forest, but they seem to have disappeared to better weather, probably California…
Regardless how sophisticated or philosophical Jim Harrison can get in his writing, and without a doubt this book has plenty of seriousness to it, he nonetheless reverts to his comfort zone in the realm of sexuality and eroticism including thoughts of incest and even the occasional salacious act. It is actually absurdly funny the way his mind travels in circles around a welcome fanny or another orifice previously hidden in its secret place. It is astounding to me how blatantly sexual this literary Harrison is and what he got away with in his honesty on the page. Of course, he did settle down some in his older years, but hardly is it worth even mentioning. God, love him.
...One moment you hate someone to the point of tears, and the next moment you're clutched together, writhing in some abbatoir glue, absolutely happy burrowing your face in her hind end and yelping when you come off, as if you've either fractured your leg or made love…
The story is an interesting one focusing on dam foreman/engineer Robert Corvus Strang and his attempt at recovery from ingesting a dangerous herb, or a terrible fall and subsequent nerve disorder, and his agreeing to be interviewed by the journalist/writer who I guess remains unnamed but could be another possible Jim Harrison who in this novel life was a divorced man actually driven to take actions on the imagination he produced on the page. Strang’s “monumental” engineering life is told in herky jerky segments covering Africa, Central America, the Amazon, and of course Upper Michigan which generally plays heavily in any Harrison writing. Interspersed in all its glorious and epic detail are the expected wanton sexual anecdotes that also play heavily in any Harrison artform. Because the novel is so different from any other Harrison fiction it is difficult to initially get into the swim of things, but midway the pace picks up, the reader’s endurance bristles and begins readying itself for the tumbling act sure to follow.
...Any metaphor between us and a river is that we can't stop ourselves one bit…
The poet Jim Harrison is equipped to compose a line or two from time to time that is not only memorable, but true. There are nuggets interspersed among all his works and part of the joy of reading Jim Harrison is in finding them. I have to believe he is our greatest American author and it mostly involves his wide range of interests, the complete body of his work, and his staying power. Plus he sure could write.
...God is blind to what you only do once out of passion...
...This leaflet identifies the plant Aristolochia medicinalis, which is a native Venezuelan remedy for epilepsy and other seizures, and which helped give me insight into the core of Strang's unique personality. Whether he is still alive or not is obviously beyond our control, but not beyond our interest. I must somehow content myself with having known a man totally free of the bondage of the appropriate…
In the author’s note in the very beginning it is important to pay attention to the details regarding Robert Corvus Strang’s use of the herb Aristolochia medicinalis and how it may have affected his person, his thinking, and his behavior. It could very well be a vote for incorporating its use in our own lives even in light of Jim Harrison’s routine admittal in his memoirs and essay that he generally avoided all mind altering drugs. This is also not to say that Harrison’s abuse of alcohol and cocaine was in any way instructive or useful in the life he led into a severely advanced age. Eating and drinking himself to oblivion was certainly a plan on his plate and it is a wonder it never happened. And his well-reported extensive efforts to do so were also never mind expanding either. But Harrison obviously had both fortitude and resilience in spades.
...When Dad got really crazy on his deathbed, we helped him out to the porch to see the northern lights. He said the northern lights were the blood of Jesus streaming in the firmament, which even scared the hell out of me…
Jim Harrison was himself admittedly once headed for the ministry. Of course, that motivation did not stand and he instead went on to his illustrious and overindulging career as writer, teacher, sex fiend, outdoorsman, Epicurean gourmet, and literary icon. I cannot imagine Harrison as a preacher with the unrelenting literary libido and vivid imagination he possessed. It may have however been quite entertaining to be a fellow parishioner in his church. I remember liking this novel very much the first time I read it, but this particular instance began not quite as grandly as my previous endeavor. I have since read much more of Harrison’s work and today hold others more affectionately. This is not to say that Sundog will not remain a memorable work. In fact, it is hard to forget.
...Sexually, the U.P. was a sensory deprivation tank. That's why they sedated themselves with booze, my own special poison, and what a friend called “the writer's black lung disease.” The moment you left any settlement up here you were smack-dab in the middle of the forest. In the old days there were nymphs and bacchantes in the forest, but they seem to have disappeared to better weather, probably California…
Regardless how sophisticated or philosophical Jim Harrison can get in his writing, and without a doubt this book has plenty of seriousness to it, he nonetheless reverts to his comfort zone in the realm of sexuality and eroticism including thoughts of incest and even the occasional salacious act. It is actually absurdly funny the way his mind travels in circles around a welcome fanny or another orifice previously hidden in its secret place. It is astounding to me how blatantly sexual this literary Harrison is and what he got away with in his honesty on the page. Of course, he did settle down some in his older years, but hardly is it worth even mentioning. God, love him.
...One moment you hate someone to the point of tears, and the next moment you're clutched together, writhing in some abbatoir glue, absolutely happy burrowing your face in her hind end and yelping when you come off, as if you've either fractured your leg or made love…
The story is an interesting one focusing on dam foreman/engineer Robert Corvus Strang and his attempt at recovery from ingesting a dangerous herb, or a terrible fall and subsequent nerve disorder, and his agreeing to be interviewed by the journalist/writer who I guess remains unnamed but could be another possible Jim Harrison who in this novel life was a divorced man actually driven to take actions on the imagination he produced on the page. Strang’s “monumental” engineering life is told in herky jerky segments covering Africa, Central America, the Amazon, and of course Upper Michigan which generally plays heavily in any Harrison writing. Interspersed in all its glorious and epic detail are the expected wanton sexual anecdotes that also play heavily in any Harrison artform. Because the novel is so different from any other Harrison fiction it is difficult to initially get into the swim of things, but midway the pace picks up, the reader’s endurance bristles and begins readying itself for the tumbling act sure to follow.
...Any metaphor between us and a river is that we can't stop ourselves one bit…
The poet Jim Harrison is equipped to compose a line or two from time to time that is not only memorable, but true. There are nuggets interspersed among all his works and part of the joy of reading Jim Harrison is in finding them. I have to believe he is our greatest American author and it mostly involves his wide range of interests, the complete body of his work, and his staying power. Plus he sure could write.
...God is blind to what you only do once out of passion...
December 8, 2022
I really wanted to like this book more than I actually did. I found the life story of the central character Robert Corvus Strang intriguing and entertaining, the constant interruptions of the narrator journalist were irritating and unnecessary, interrupting the flow of the narratIve. Jim Harrison is, in my opinion, an excellent writer, but this is well below his best work.
August 18, 2026
A humble brag of a novel where the author puts himself in it … as the narrator, who is also a novelist. And then makes the narrator this gluttonous lout who somehow has a chance with every female who shows up. He also drinks an unbelievable amount. “Look at me, I’m a drunken novelist who doesn’t care about my own wellbeing. Give me whiskey and whoops … look who I woke up next to? How’d that happen? Oh right, I’m writing this book.” My GF would describe him as a perv.
And the machismo ‘hero’ this narrator is writing about blazes an amazing path all across the globe. Of course, he leaves behind wives and families in multiple countries. All who, for some reason, still love him … ‘cause … he’s … he’s his own man!? I also think he’s tall. This book was written in 1984.
Of course, he doesn’t really own up to any of his responsibilities and his entire life work could have been a huge mistake building the dams and all. But he lives! Oh how he lives. Mental load be damned! He’s the type of guy that those who know him at a distance put him on a pedestal, while those who live with him make his bed and take out his trash.
I never would have known about this book but some guy in his later 70’s who works at Books Inc. literally put this book in my hand and said I should read it. It’s 274 pages, how could I say no.
And the writing is great. How the book is structured is fun as hell and works well. I was also looking words and facts up the entire time I was reading. I enjoyed reading the first half. I wanted the supporting characters to have just a little more self-respect in the second. That said, I’ll read him again. (2.5/5)
Interesting Note: The San Francisco library does NOT have this book.
And the machismo ‘hero’ this narrator is writing about blazes an amazing path all across the globe. Of course, he leaves behind wives and families in multiple countries. All who, for some reason, still love him … ‘cause … he’s … he’s his own man!? I also think he’s tall. This book was written in 1984.
Of course, he doesn’t really own up to any of his responsibilities and his entire life work could have been a huge mistake building the dams and all. But he lives! Oh how he lives. Mental load be damned! He’s the type of guy that those who know him at a distance put him on a pedestal, while those who live with him make his bed and take out his trash.
I never would have known about this book but some guy in his later 70’s who works at Books Inc. literally put this book in my hand and said I should read it. It’s 274 pages, how could I say no.
And the writing is great. How the book is structured is fun as hell and works well. I was also looking words and facts up the entire time I was reading. I enjoyed reading the first half. I wanted the supporting characters to have just a little more self-respect in the second. That said, I’ll read him again. (2.5/5)
Interesting Note: The San Francisco library does NOT have this book.
May 22, 2023
Sometimes there’s great literature that’s outdated and you can forgive the problematic parts or attribute it to the time it was written. This is not one of them. Even with the twist
November 2, 2008
I have no idea where this book came from; it's been on my bookshelf for ages and I finally decided to read it. At first I thought I was going to hate it. It seemed colorless and boring, narrated in first-person by a self-centered author sent to write a biography on an engineer. But as characters were introduced and the subject's story began to be revealed, I realized this book was far more than I expected. Strang, the engineer, is suffering from a nerve disorder brought on by ingesting an herb in a foreign land (a common treatment for the natives there, but too much for him). Confined to a wheelchair and attended by a beautiful Costa Rican dancer, he tries to bring back the use of his damaged legs. His work had led him all over the world, and the story he tells is honest, raw, sexual and strong. The ending of this book is a sort of beautiful yet obscure triumph.
September 7, 2010
The first I ever heard of Jim Harrison was when I was getting drunk and singing with the MFA crew in Fayetteville in the 1980's. Jim's brother headed up Mullins Library on campus and the MFA program in Creative Writing lured Jim there to do one of those week long boot camps for inspiring writers. The finale was always a reading, book signing and alchohol-fired revelry afterwards.
It's been 25 or so years since then and I've finally found his first book that I thoroughly enjoyed.
The plot is buried in sort of a twisted love triangle. Harrison is a beautiful prosist and I love his vocabulary. I marvel at how his narrator wallows in gluttony but the reader loves the guy anyway!
We need more novels like Sundog.
It's been 25 or so years since then and I've finally found his first book that I thoroughly enjoyed.
The plot is buried in sort of a twisted love triangle. Harrison is a beautiful prosist and I love his vocabulary. I marvel at how his narrator wallows in gluttony but the reader loves the guy anyway!
We need more novels like Sundog.
April 28, 2010
Excellent character study. Brilliant prose if you can get past the fact all the character seem to speak the same way. Never seen the word "vertigo" so much in one book.
May 16, 2012
Fuck you. Read it.
January 24, 2022
Have you ever watched a drunken fool sing a song onstage and manage to make a total mess of a song but still hit two or three good notes here and there? If so, you are already very familiar with Sundog by Jim Harrison, a book that took me most of the month to muster up the energy to finish.
If an entire book is about a man’s life, and the entire length of the book consists of another man interviewing him, it seems important for at least one of the men to have something of substance to say.
Despite the fact that our hapless and hopeless (and nameless) narrator is told to go searching for Robert Corvus Strang, sneeringly described to him as “‘someone who actually does something,’” Strang failed to hold my interest as a main interview subject. Strang is described to the narrator as out of touch with reality, and it’s not as if the narrator is particularly positive or inspirational about his own project: “It had been over a decade since I had done anything vaguely journalistic, and this project was becoming more doubtful by the moment.”
This is on page 29 of 254 by the by, as I checked my clock, and my clock radio, and my odometer, and the date of my last oil change. Oh, it took me a week to read this book? I can’t say why, only that I kept finding better things to do than reading something like this: “Thus far the swimming had caused him great suffering; the awkward muscle bunches built up by crawling tended to cramp in the water, but he was sure he could work his way through the problem. The day before a cramp had been so severe that he had broken a tooth while gritting his teeth.” Leave this boring old man alone in peace!
There isn’t anything worthwhile about Strang’s life that can’t be gleaned from other businessmen of the same age. There is much to-do made about Strang traveling the world to build bridges and dams, but none of the hype made me actually care about this man on a personal level. Strang has lots of nice things to say about different places he’s lived in: “The years in Costa Rica were the best of my working life. I’m shocked you’ve never been there, because I’d say it’s my favorite place on earth.”
As Strang talks to the narrator, it’s remarkable to note how little Strang seems to significantly care about any of the various women in his life, who seem to come and go quite easily. “So I crossed the bridge going south, and I never really came back until now, over twenty-five years later.” Jim Harrison forgot to include a missing chapter that explains why this deadbeat dad had some kind of magical, glowing golden penis that attracts women across the world, because I just don’t get it. Trigger warning: Strang relates an encounter with a sex worker on page 201 that features transphobic language.
It is clear the narrator considers Strang’s story to be more significant than it actually is: “Strang’s story was immersed in love, work, and death; its lack of decor was made up for by the tired, aforementioned saws of wholeness, harmony, and even, at least for me, a modicum of radiance.” If there had been some sort of interesting person this book was about, I think a line like this would actually feel earned instead of hollow. I cannot recommend this book at all!
If an entire book is about a man’s life, and the entire length of the book consists of another man interviewing him, it seems important for at least one of the men to have something of substance to say.
Despite the fact that our hapless and hopeless (and nameless) narrator is told to go searching for Robert Corvus Strang, sneeringly described to him as “‘someone who actually does something,’” Strang failed to hold my interest as a main interview subject. Strang is described to the narrator as out of touch with reality, and it’s not as if the narrator is particularly positive or inspirational about his own project: “It had been over a decade since I had done anything vaguely journalistic, and this project was becoming more doubtful by the moment.”
This is on page 29 of 254 by the by, as I checked my clock, and my clock radio, and my odometer, and the date of my last oil change. Oh, it took me a week to read this book? I can’t say why, only that I kept finding better things to do than reading something like this: “Thus far the swimming had caused him great suffering; the awkward muscle bunches built up by crawling tended to cramp in the water, but he was sure he could work his way through the problem. The day before a cramp had been so severe that he had broken a tooth while gritting his teeth.” Leave this boring old man alone in peace!
There isn’t anything worthwhile about Strang’s life that can’t be gleaned from other businessmen of the same age. There is much to-do made about Strang traveling the world to build bridges and dams, but none of the hype made me actually care about this man on a personal level. Strang has lots of nice things to say about different places he’s lived in: “The years in Costa Rica were the best of my working life. I’m shocked you’ve never been there, because I’d say it’s my favorite place on earth.”
As Strang talks to the narrator, it’s remarkable to note how little Strang seems to significantly care about any of the various women in his life, who seem to come and go quite easily. “So I crossed the bridge going south, and I never really came back until now, over twenty-five years later.” Jim Harrison forgot to include a missing chapter that explains why this deadbeat dad had some kind of magical, glowing golden penis that attracts women across the world, because I just don’t get it. Trigger warning: Strang relates an encounter with a sex worker on page 201 that features transphobic language.
It is clear the narrator considers Strang’s story to be more significant than it actually is: “Strang’s story was immersed in love, work, and death; its lack of decor was made up for by the tired, aforementioned saws of wholeness, harmony, and even, at least for me, a modicum of radiance.” If there had been some sort of interesting person this book was about, I think a line like this would actually feel earned instead of hollow. I cannot recommend this book at all!
May 17, 2018
Not the best Harrison I've read, but anything he writes is entertaining. Some of his ideas are outdated or unrealistic, but I admire his fearlessness, his willingness to hyperbolize his reality and give grand scope to his small corner of Michigan. His digressive armchair philosophy makes for easy, enlightened reading, the lumbering plot a mere vehicle for his effortless prose. He is a Michigan gem, and although this book travels around the world a bit, its heart is in the Upper Peninsula, where many of his best stories take place. He writes of the outdoors with an insider's knowledge, but flexes intellectual might on all sorts of topics embedded in his salt-of-the-earth scholars who live counter to the laws and conventions of everyday society. Despite their flaws and embellishments, they are memorable characters whom we cannot help but root for. Sundog is no different, whether wayward journalist, crippled engineer, or independent-minded caregiver. This book is more a collection of wisdom and hazy memoir than a linear sequence of events, but that's Harrison, for better or worse. I tend to see the better.
July 12, 2018
This is Jim Harrison at his best--clean, straight-forward prose, strong characters, and compelling story lines. It is a probing exploration of what it means to be human with all its complexities, contradictions, and compulsions. To live true to our natures, there is no room for social conventions and stereotypes and therein may lie the only chance at salvation.
August 14, 2024
As the character study of the engineer protagonist Robert Corvus Strang resolves in the final chapter in Jim Harrison’s Sundog, the narrator states that he reread Joseph Campbell’s, “The Hero with a Thousand Faces for the umpteenth time. Mythology is a soothing hobby. There aren’t any old myths, just new people.” (Pg. 236). This admission gives a hint as to what Jim Harrison attempts to accomplish in his novel: A biographical portrait that elevates a man to mythological proportions, a biographical portrait that intertwines descriptions of a primitive landscape with the protagonist’s attempt to both live within and master that landscape.
It is easy to fall into a trap of platitudes and cliché when presenting the portrait of a human being as a mythological being grappling with Nature. Jim Harrison is a very talented and accomplished novelist, so he mostly avoids this pitfall. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan--where most of the story is based--is presented as a primitive and hostile region in which Nature reigns supreme. A mere mortal like Robert Corvus Strang, an autodidact engineer who helped build dams for developing nations in remote regions on several different continents, is virtually a part of the landscape of the Upper Peninsula, his former home, where he attempts to recover from the side effects of tribal medication that he ingested to ward off epileptic seizures which have led to—hopefully--only temporary paralysis of his legs. During his convalescence, he relates the story of his life to the narrator, who bears a strong resemblance to the author Jim Harrison, though Sundog is a work of fiction.
As with most works that present a man’s life as myth, there are ample allusions to religion; Corvus’ father was a preacher, and Christian undertones remain throughout the book. Corvus is ostensibly a man of science and technology, but readily quotes scripture; there are several allusions to incest; lightning is virtually a character in the book, giving Nature the power of a Deity; and then there is the “resolution,” or ambiguous disappearance of the protagonist.
The Western canon has several instances of “Death by Water,” most notably section IV of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. Josef Knecht, the protagonist of Herman Hesse’s Das Glasperlenspiel (The Glass Bead Game), disappears near a lake. Is he dead or has he ascended in sort some of religious transformation? Jim Harrison Sundog continues in this vein, presenting an enigmatic gifted man with a Christian ethos and having him disappear with nary a trace.
A blurb on the original dust jacket for Sundog compares Jim Harrison to Herman Melville. I agree completely. Like Melville, Harrison is a master of presenting a man struggling with the primal elements of nature. The struggle often attains biblical proportions and presents remote areas of the United States with an exactitude of detail that can send all but a botanist reader to a thesaurus. The Upper Peninsula is Harrison’s Pequod.
This is only my second foray into Harrison’s work. My first was the novel Wolf: A False Memoir which I read over two decades ago. Nevertheless, aspects of Harrison’s prose and themes were immediately recognizable. Perhaps my only quibble with this book is that the narrator resembles the protagonist in too many ways, particularly regarding his outspoken sexuality and his epicurean appetite that relishes the descriptions of elaborate meals, even in a remote setting like the Upper Peninsula. Perhaps this was intentional on Harrison’s part, but he is so prolific that perhaps he merely blended character traits unwittingly.
It is easy to fall into a trap of platitudes and cliché when presenting the portrait of a human being as a mythological being grappling with Nature. Jim Harrison is a very talented and accomplished novelist, so he mostly avoids this pitfall. The Upper Peninsula of Michigan--where most of the story is based--is presented as a primitive and hostile region in which Nature reigns supreme. A mere mortal like Robert Corvus Strang, an autodidact engineer who helped build dams for developing nations in remote regions on several different continents, is virtually a part of the landscape of the Upper Peninsula, his former home, where he attempts to recover from the side effects of tribal medication that he ingested to ward off epileptic seizures which have led to—hopefully--only temporary paralysis of his legs. During his convalescence, he relates the story of his life to the narrator, who bears a strong resemblance to the author Jim Harrison, though Sundog is a work of fiction.
As with most works that present a man’s life as myth, there are ample allusions to religion; Corvus’ father was a preacher, and Christian undertones remain throughout the book. Corvus is ostensibly a man of science and technology, but readily quotes scripture; there are several allusions to incest; lightning is virtually a character in the book, giving Nature the power of a Deity; and then there is the “resolution,” or ambiguous disappearance of the protagonist.
The Western canon has several instances of “Death by Water,” most notably section IV of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. Josef Knecht, the protagonist of Herman Hesse’s Das Glasperlenspiel (The Glass Bead Game), disappears near a lake. Is he dead or has he ascended in sort some of religious transformation? Jim Harrison Sundog continues in this vein, presenting an enigmatic gifted man with a Christian ethos and having him disappear with nary a trace.
A blurb on the original dust jacket for Sundog compares Jim Harrison to Herman Melville. I agree completely. Like Melville, Harrison is a master of presenting a man struggling with the primal elements of nature. The struggle often attains biblical proportions and presents remote areas of the United States with an exactitude of detail that can send all but a botanist reader to a thesaurus. The Upper Peninsula is Harrison’s Pequod.
This is only my second foray into Harrison’s work. My first was the novel Wolf: A False Memoir which I read over two decades ago. Nevertheless, aspects of Harrison’s prose and themes were immediately recognizable. Perhaps my only quibble with this book is that the narrator resembles the protagonist in too many ways, particularly regarding his outspoken sexuality and his epicurean appetite that relishes the descriptions of elaborate meals, even in a remote setting like the Upper Peninsula. Perhaps this was intentional on Harrison’s part, but he is so prolific that perhaps he merely blended character traits unwittingly.
June 19, 2026
I received the novel from my grandfather in a bag of old books to be thrown out.
I have a few things to say - please bear with me as this is my first review and I am no literary academic.
I shall start with my positive opinion. I believe Harrison has an incredible skill in creating characters with depth who we readers genuinely connect with. I was genuinely invested in Strang’s story and can genuinely say my heart was racing when he recounted the story of his injury.
The same can be said for the image he paints. I thought the chapters describing the forest or Africa (anywhere on Strang’s travels really) were beautifully written and I enjoyed picturing them.
However, the book does let itself down.
There is rampant misogyny throughout. Women are merely objects of the writer’s desires. Any woman who shows competence is disliked. Every single woman mentioned in the book - Harrison discusses her looks or strips her humanity and makes her a vessel for a man’s sexual gratification. The ‘macho’ American man theme grew tiresome to be completely honest.
Also, I felt as though I was wading through a rough draft reading this book. It was jarring to have such well thought out and compelling characters in a story with plot holes with no sense of direction. Harrison deserts any sense of a well thought out plot and in the later chapters it seems like he throws a few bombshells our way just to confuse us - which he then refuses to explore and abandons them where they land. (Spoiler alert) We spend most of the book anxious to meet present day Karl - and then when we do he is used as a vessel to drop a pretty pointless plot twist that is then dropped because Harrison does not know what to do with it or how to make it relevant. I was completely disappointed by it and the fact that the meeting with Karl was just quickly stored away in a tape recording note.
Also, I understand that Harrison enjoys writing raw and taboo subjects in attempts to reflect the underbelly of human nature and to push us to our limits. However, the incest littered throughout the book felt completely forced and did not serve the plot (or the lack thereof). I felt as though he was purposely trying to disgust the reader - simply because he could? I understand these topics come from him wanting to present a raw and authentic ‘messy human experience’ but I felt that it actually missed the mark and was actually just weird and uncomfortable.
I think the story lost its way and the ending was rushed. Harrison gives us these brilliant characters and a good foundation for a brilliant story. However, it all falls flat. Throwing a few unexplained curveballs our way and then having the writer just leave town - seems to me that Harrison could not work out how to end or even coincide his ideas and so abandons them. The attempt at a philosophical ending, after the randomness of the bombshells, was completely frustrating.
Would not recommend to anyone - felt like a fever dream.
I have a few things to say - please bear with me as this is my first review and I am no literary academic.
I shall start with my positive opinion. I believe Harrison has an incredible skill in creating characters with depth who we readers genuinely connect with. I was genuinely invested in Strang’s story and can genuinely say my heart was racing when he recounted the story of his injury.
The same can be said for the image he paints. I thought the chapters describing the forest or Africa (anywhere on Strang’s travels really) were beautifully written and I enjoyed picturing them.
However, the book does let itself down.
There is rampant misogyny throughout. Women are merely objects of the writer’s desires. Any woman who shows competence is disliked. Every single woman mentioned in the book - Harrison discusses her looks or strips her humanity and makes her a vessel for a man’s sexual gratification. The ‘macho’ American man theme grew tiresome to be completely honest.
Also, I felt as though I was wading through a rough draft reading this book. It was jarring to have such well thought out and compelling characters in a story with plot holes with no sense of direction. Harrison deserts any sense of a well thought out plot and in the later chapters it seems like he throws a few bombshells our way just to confuse us - which he then refuses to explore and abandons them where they land. (Spoiler alert) We spend most of the book anxious to meet present day Karl - and then when we do he is used as a vessel to drop a pretty pointless plot twist that is then dropped because Harrison does not know what to do with it or how to make it relevant. I was completely disappointed by it and the fact that the meeting with Karl was just quickly stored away in a tape recording note.
Also, I understand that Harrison enjoys writing raw and taboo subjects in attempts to reflect the underbelly of human nature and to push us to our limits. However, the incest littered throughout the book felt completely forced and did not serve the plot (or the lack thereof). I felt as though he was purposely trying to disgust the reader - simply because he could? I understand these topics come from him wanting to present a raw and authentic ‘messy human experience’ but I felt that it actually missed the mark and was actually just weird and uncomfortable.
I think the story lost its way and the ending was rushed. Harrison gives us these brilliant characters and a good foundation for a brilliant story. However, it all falls flat. Throwing a few unexplained curveballs our way and then having the writer just leave town - seems to me that Harrison could not work out how to end or even coincide his ideas and so abandons them. The attempt at a philosophical ending, after the randomness of the bombshells, was completely frustrating.
Would not recommend to anyone - felt like a fever dream.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
June 16, 2018
Well into the story Strang, the protagonist in Sundog, recounts to Jim Harrison - actual author and fictional (but near true-to-life) character commissioned by the father of one of Strang’s ex-wives to write Strang’s memoirs – a conversation they had had about beauty. And one has the sense that Harrison sees this Robert Corvus Strang as beautiful. Sundog begins with a William Blake quote that ‘eternity is in love with the productions of time’ and I felt that this was the essence of the story. Beauty for Harrison and Strang is something or someone that possesses wholeness, harmony, radiance and surprise. I had taste of that early yesterday morning when in a Conservation area with my dog we surprised a doe and her fawn, perhaps only a day old, coming within a few metres of them before they bounded away, the fawn’s legs still wobbly. It reminded me of how sacred beauty is, fragile and tentative, and how it renews one’s spirit.
So I enjoyed Sundog: I liked the author and the main character, his jaunty and witty style, his love of life, food (glutton and heavy drinker) and women (although in real life I suspect Jim Harrison had been faithful to his wife of 55 years who predeceased him just six months before his own death in March 2016). I also liked the topic, at least in this case, building dams – this reminded me of Ayn Rand’s works which tended to the physical and heroic, and to Victor Hugo’s such as his Toilers of the Sea wherein (I think) he describes what it means to seek greatness – that it is a solitary endeavour, at least in the beginning.
In Strang it was not just what he did but how he saw life: ‘when this sort of injustice ceases to make the heart ache and no action is taken, we become the country we are becoming’. All three of his ex-wives and we like Strang (and Harrison) for the strength and mystery of their personality, both originally country boys and now erudite, who had lived well and worked hard, who remained ‘undefeated’ (i.e. ‘unsuited for assisted living’), who seemed generous, gentle and faithful to what they believed to be important to being human and who feared anything that would militate against that e.g. ‘don’t let religion make you mean-minded about sex’ and who thought St Paul was a little off his rocker. Strang was a man who had had an impact on his environment and on those around him disproportionately larger than one could expect of a ‘foreman’.
I wondered about the title. ‘Sundog’ is defined primarily as an optical phenomenon with bright spots to the left or right of the sun (sometimes both). But to the Ojibway, I think, a sundog represents the white buffalo, which apparently is the most sacred living thing one could encounter: a sign that good times are coming, a presence that fills one with a sense of energy and gratitude and a symbol of hope, which according to Victor Vaclav is above all, possibility.
Edwin
So I enjoyed Sundog: I liked the author and the main character, his jaunty and witty style, his love of life, food (glutton and heavy drinker) and women (although in real life I suspect Jim Harrison had been faithful to his wife of 55 years who predeceased him just six months before his own death in March 2016). I also liked the topic, at least in this case, building dams – this reminded me of Ayn Rand’s works which tended to the physical and heroic, and to Victor Hugo’s such as his Toilers of the Sea wherein (I think) he describes what it means to seek greatness – that it is a solitary endeavour, at least in the beginning.
In Strang it was not just what he did but how he saw life: ‘when this sort of injustice ceases to make the heart ache and no action is taken, we become the country we are becoming’. All three of his ex-wives and we like Strang (and Harrison) for the strength and mystery of their personality, both originally country boys and now erudite, who had lived well and worked hard, who remained ‘undefeated’ (i.e. ‘unsuited for assisted living’), who seemed generous, gentle and faithful to what they believed to be important to being human and who feared anything that would militate against that e.g. ‘don’t let religion make you mean-minded about sex’ and who thought St Paul was a little off his rocker. Strang was a man who had had an impact on his environment and on those around him disproportionately larger than one could expect of a ‘foreman’.
I wondered about the title. ‘Sundog’ is defined primarily as an optical phenomenon with bright spots to the left or right of the sun (sometimes both). But to the Ojibway, I think, a sundog represents the white buffalo, which apparently is the most sacred living thing one could encounter: a sign that good times are coming, a presence that fills one with a sense of energy and gratitude and a symbol of hope, which according to Victor Vaclav is above all, possibility.
Edwin
March 27, 2026
A glorious, glorious book. At risk of the statement becoming tired - certainly I have said this before after finishing one of Harrison's works - this is one of the most beautiful and life-affirming books I have ever had the pleasure to read. There are passages here on companionship, nature, optimism, sex, and the soul that are immortal, that pull the flesh and the spirit together and speak that current of blood and care that holds us all together, that must hold us all together. Such an immortality is absolutely a tenet of Harrison when he is at his wrenching best. The method of character study here felt utterly fresh in its presentation irrespective of using the trope of lengthy journalistic interview with the individual who is essentially the protagonist at removal. Strang, the beating heart of 'Sundog', is a joy; I greatly enjoyed the method of blending the perspective of our narrator with tape manuscripts and the recorded narrations of Strang himself - this lent a great energy and conversational nature to the entire piece. Our characters, irrespective of the length of their presence in the narrative, all felt full-blooded and delightfully singular - this is another marker of Harrison's work. The balancing of disability and optimism was handled deftly, a certain requirement for a book that holds such a topic tightly to its core. Again, Harrison writes of sex and love with real grace, for it is evident that he holds the two sincerely central to his conception of life, of the achievement of beauty and connection with one another and the world, of the undercurrent of the soul that he so timelessly captures. Such grace prevents the sexual from ever spilling into the masturbatory that so often can be fatal for less honest, more conceited masculine writers. The ending, too, felt whole and timely, and in all sincerity I did not see it in its coming, owing to my total absorption with each page, each heartbeat. Such a final balancing of hope and seriousness is hard to come by but it was certainly present here. This review may appear overtly gushing, though it is honest - this is the effect that Harrison, his work and his words, have on me. I brought this home with me to read amidst the writing of my dissertation as I knew it would clear my head and return me to my body and the world - it certainly has done.
'That's why I refused all those drugs after a while. I had to be conscious. That's all. How could I bear not being conscious? Last night I was swimming in my dreams and it was wonderful.'
'That's why I refused all those drugs after a while. I had to be conscious. That's all. How could I bear not being conscious? Last night I was swimming in my dreams and it was wonderful.'
February 1, 2022
Jim Harrison cultivates a mostly charming provincial raffishness in this novel (evident in others I’ve read, as well, such as The Great Leader, The English Major, and True North), where the nameless first-person narrator stands in for the author, exposing himself as a discriminating gourmand, a thoughtful ethnographer, an outdoor enthusiast, and an unlikely, big-bellied lothario. While the three other Harrison novels were about the first-person narrator (in each, a Jim Harrison stand-in), Sundog focuses on the life story of a “man of action”, a builder of dams, dykes, and irrigation projects in Europe, Asia, and South America: Robert Corvus Strang.
Whether as RC, Corve, or Strang, the dam-builder is an impressive human specimen, though not without his own set of faults and Achilles heel. It’s the latter, a case of lightning-induced petite mal epilepsy, that makes him vulnerable and provokes him to maximize his life’s potential (which expression is so well presented in this story, that it’s by itself worth the price of admission). Strang is recuperating in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and Harrison has been commissioned by Strang’s friend and employer to keep him company, promote his recovery, and extract his life story.
Strang is a paragon of practical strength and intelligence, and his current debility—the virtual paralysis of his legs due to ingestion of medicinal herbs in Brazil—will be overcome by sheer willpower. And while there is this indomitable aspect to Strang’s character, there is also at his core a charming, easy-going, at-peace nature. Harrison does a good job of presenting this paragon without making Strang a freak of nature. Strang’s got his faults, but his general manner is admirable without being cloying or offputting. Depicting real characters in fiction with these traits is in itself admirable, and Harrison does this against the background of his narrator’s obsessive need to drink, eat, and womanize. It’s a seductive hangdog performance.
Whether as RC, Corve, or Strang, the dam-builder is an impressive human specimen, though not without his own set of faults and Achilles heel. It’s the latter, a case of lightning-induced petite mal epilepsy, that makes him vulnerable and provokes him to maximize his life’s potential (which expression is so well presented in this story, that it’s by itself worth the price of admission). Strang is recuperating in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and Harrison has been commissioned by Strang’s friend and employer to keep him company, promote his recovery, and extract his life story.
Strang is a paragon of practical strength and intelligence, and his current debility—the virtual paralysis of his legs due to ingestion of medicinal herbs in Brazil—will be overcome by sheer willpower. And while there is this indomitable aspect to Strang’s character, there is also at his core a charming, easy-going, at-peace nature. Harrison does a good job of presenting this paragon without making Strang a freak of nature. Strang’s got his faults, but his general manner is admirable without being cloying or offputting. Depicting real characters in fiction with these traits is in itself admirable, and Harrison does this against the background of his narrator’s obsessive need to drink, eat, and womanize. It’s a seductive hangdog performance.
February 5, 2026
Incroyable, bizarre, philosophical and oh so full of wisdom, as always with Jim - "certainly the world itself must be more than the collection, the accretion, of all we read about."
The level of poetic prose Harrison accomplishes in this one is just staggering.
"It was a dawn to remember with a smile on your deathbed. The sky was vivid red as if the forest had caught fire. I drove through clumps of pink fog, recrossing the river of the day before which lividly reflected the sky. The roadside and small clearing in the forest were covered with white blooming dogwood, around which mist coiled and released like unraveling white satin. I stopped the car and shivered, imagining that I might have died and this was some sort of afterlife designed by H. Bosch and Magritte, much less vulgar than Dalit it it was life lived with a brilliantly colored seashell from which one might not emerge"
"It was a night I would remember poignantly but not wish to repeat. Insomnia opens the door to previously untraced memories, makes a mockery of the good sense that possesses us at high noon, and any effort we make to channel our thoughts twists the energy, rebukes us with half-finished faces, sexless bodies; we learn again that our minds are full of snares, knots, goblins, the backward march of the dead, the bridges that end halfway and still hang in the air, those who failed to love us, those who irreparably harmed us, intentionally or not, even those we hurt badly and live on incapsulated in our regrets. The past thrives on a sleepless night, reduces it to the awesome, distorted essence of all we have met.
These thoughts left me starting at my travel clock and listening to the gale on Lake Superior, which owed all the harsh throatiness of Kenya's grandest male lion, one of which had roared at our Rover's headlights, his entire massive head and made drenched with blood."
The level of poetic prose Harrison accomplishes in this one is just staggering.
"It was a dawn to remember with a smile on your deathbed. The sky was vivid red as if the forest had caught fire. I drove through clumps of pink fog, recrossing the river of the day before which lividly reflected the sky. The roadside and small clearing in the forest were covered with white blooming dogwood, around which mist coiled and released like unraveling white satin. I stopped the car and shivered, imagining that I might have died and this was some sort of afterlife designed by H. Bosch and Magritte, much less vulgar than Dalit it it was life lived with a brilliantly colored seashell from which one might not emerge"
"It was a night I would remember poignantly but not wish to repeat. Insomnia opens the door to previously untraced memories, makes a mockery of the good sense that possesses us at high noon, and any effort we make to channel our thoughts twists the energy, rebukes us with half-finished faces, sexless bodies; we learn again that our minds are full of snares, knots, goblins, the backward march of the dead, the bridges that end halfway and still hang in the air, those who failed to love us, those who irreparably harmed us, intentionally or not, even those we hurt badly and live on incapsulated in our regrets. The past thrives on a sleepless night, reduces it to the awesome, distorted essence of all we have met.
These thoughts left me starting at my travel clock and listening to the gale on Lake Superior, which owed all the harsh throatiness of Kenya's grandest male lion, one of which had roared at our Rover's headlights, his entire massive head and made drenched with blood."
October 19, 2026
The best Harrison I've read so far. True sentence writing (goes without saying), but this has that ineffable something, that hard to name peculiarity great books have, something, I think, that has to do with a nearly immeasurable closeness to life itself. Not realism exactly, though it is realist in this case, but something more, something tapping into this odd world we all wake up to one day and remain until death. In his own words, "Strang’s story was immersed in love, work, and death; its lack of decor was made up for by the tired, aforementioned saws of wholeness, harmony, and even, at least for me, a modicum of radiance. In short, the mystery of personality, of life itself.”
This is a great description of literary fiction. And in this case, a writer/narrator trying to understand a man of the world who can actually do things (build bridges and dams!), which could be the crux of its greatness. “There’s a stubborn irony in the idea that so many of the most compassionate people don’t know how to do anything," Strang tells this narrator/journalist/version-of-Harrison. Writers tend to be compassionate people, and also inept at most everything else, but fascinated by (at least they should be if they're good writers) by people who actually do stuff.
And for a literary writer, someone truly trying to reach some deeper, tougher truth about life itself, it is an unending mystery. “All the questions I had prepared were unanswerable," our narrator writes, "and I wanted to get back to the story he was in no shape to continue.”
But in the hard research, and in the honest telling, there is some modicum of truth, and of radiance.
This is a great description of literary fiction. And in this case, a writer/narrator trying to understand a man of the world who can actually do things (build bridges and dams!), which could be the crux of its greatness. “There’s a stubborn irony in the idea that so many of the most compassionate people don’t know how to do anything," Strang tells this narrator/journalist/version-of-Harrison. Writers tend to be compassionate people, and also inept at most everything else, but fascinated by (at least they should be if they're good writers) by people who actually do stuff.
And for a literary writer, someone truly trying to reach some deeper, tougher truth about life itself, it is an unending mystery. “All the questions I had prepared were unanswerable," our narrator writes, "and I wanted to get back to the story he was in no shape to continue.”
But in the hard research, and in the honest telling, there is some modicum of truth, and of radiance.
March 22, 2022
A pretty strange read from this prolific author, now deceased. It seems as though this author has been writing raw and politically incorrect stories since the 1970's. How I missed him through all these years is a mystery. I am currently reading an early volume of his and I noted the difference in maturity in this latter novel, Sundog. This is a weird story of a chronicler writing and conversing with the reader through taped sessions with this engineer and bon vivant who has gone through quite astounding adventures from Upper Michigan to the jungles in South America and lands far from "civilization" in the interior of Africa. Snappy writing and wonderful characters makes this volume a truly interesting reading adventure. I won't spoil the future reader with information on character particulars and how they impact the chronicle. Just take a chance and enjoy the ride whether it is over a dam, or on a river or through thick jungle. This author took the secrets of his life with him to his grave; and what he has left makes for a rich find. I will explore more of his stories, that is for sure.
October 11, 2017
This is the first Jim Harrison novel that I've finished. I started "Dalva" a number of years ago, but it just didn't take hold of me. Two friends have continued to praise his books to me, and one recently gave this one to me as a gift. I got on the wavelength relatively easily this time and finished it quickly, enjoying it very much. The author's reputation comes through clearly (i.e. the narrator's adventurous globe-trotting, his fondness for good food, good wine and, hey, what beautiful young woman wouldn't want to have sex with a rotund 46 year-old writer?). That said, I thought the writing was very good and the style very interesting. The story is told from three different perspectives: that of the author/narrator, a journalist investigating the life of an Upper Michigan native who had worked in various exotic locales building dams and irrigation systems; that of the subject of the project; and in the form of "transcripts" of the narrator's taped dictation during the project. All in all, a very good read. I plan on reading more Jim Harrison in the future.
May 20, 2021
I found this book difficult to get into at first, as the narrator and the protagonist are not the same person. Their stories intersect when the former decides to interview the latter. The narrator is a writer you occasionally want to slap upside the head, and the protagonist is one of Harrison's great characters, an engineer who has worked on dams and other projects all over the world, and has suffered a terrible accident and is recuperating close to his childhood home in Michigan. The vastly different voices threw me off at first, and there are stretches in tiny print that represent the author's tape recordings, but once the protagonist starts getting into his story the book is hard to put down, even as he ricochets from one subject to another. There are a couple twists and turns, and an ending that left me with my mouth hanging open in plain admiration. This is only my second book of Harrison's prose, the first being the superb Brown Dog. Amazon had many of the ebooks on sale for $3, so I acquired a bunch, and have been enjoying myself immensely.
June 29, 2018
When I was a downhearted 19-year-old, this book helped get me through. What more can you ask of a book?
The only work I can easily compare it to would be Peter Matthiessen's The Snow Leopard. Both books, once you get past the surface differences, are concerned with the human spirit... No, that's too vague. I'll rephrase. Both books are concerned with overcoming despair. If that's not something you're hungry for or need in your life right now, then I'll say that Sundog is a fun, well-written story with a lot of heart. What more can you ask of a book?
The only work I can easily compare it to would be Peter Matthiessen's The Snow Leopard. Both books, once you get past the surface differences, are concerned with the human spirit... No, that's too vague. I'll rephrase. Both books are concerned with overcoming despair. If that's not something you're hungry for or need in your life right now, then I'll say that Sundog is a fun, well-written story with a lot of heart. What more can you ask of a book?
March 21, 2019
There is no adding or robbing from this book. It is a final story but doesn’t lack echo. Strang’s life, his loves, and Jim’s ability to talk about a man in nearly every stage from bloom to wilt is incomparable in my mind. Every sensualist must read this and every pragmatist unconsciously fears it. Maybe it’s the Midwest in me but Jim is a man I’d both drink with all Saturday and repent with on Sunday if I could get up the strength to rest on my knees. I will go to Michigan for the food alone at this point.
July 29, 2018
À la fois fascinant, insolite et un peu étrange, ce roman de Jim Harrison m'a tenue en haleine de sorte que je l'ai quasiment d'une seule traite.
Pas forcément son meilleur opus, mais je suis restée intriguée jusqu'au comme en terrain inconnu... Bien qu'habituée aux paysages et personnages sauvages, hauts en couleurs de l'auteur.
Je recommande aux amoureux de Jim Harrison qui auraient besoin d'en dépoussiérer le piédestal.
Pas forcément son meilleur opus, mais je suis restée intriguée jusqu'au comme en terrain inconnu... Bien qu'habituée aux paysages et personnages sauvages, hauts en couleurs de l'auteur.
Je recommande aux amoureux de Jim Harrison qui auraient besoin d'en dépoussiérer le piédestal.
October 15, 2024
4.1/5.0 I was continually amazed at the turn of phrase in this book. Humorous and witty, lively characters are created, often through dialogue. I hoped to find a character in Strang and was pleasantly surprised when I found one in the reporter as well. Unfortunately I was unimpressed with the preoccupation with sex and the lack of development that the female characters suffered from. One of the funniest books I’ve read in a long while.
July 5, 2025
Jim Harrison is my favorite writer. I stand in awe of his talent and am deeply grateful for the enjoyment I have derived from it. I'm not sure if there's anyone who could excel in prose, poetry, and food writing as well as Harrison. I have delayed reading Sundog because it is the last of Harrison's prose that I have not read. When a favored writer passes on, it is always sad when you read the last of his work. Sundog was classic Harrison.
January 10, 2026
Loved this story felt at home reading this. JH is a true American writer and joy to have the chance to read his work for the first time.
This was based on a real story of a man who worked on huge agriculture projects throughout central/South America. These kinds of stories do not get highlighted and never talked about but it takes a proud man to want to work jobs building huge dams for living.
Lot of descriptive food.
This was based on a real story of a man who worked on huge agriculture projects throughout central/South America. These kinds of stories do not get highlighted and never talked about but it takes a proud man to want to work jobs building huge dams for living.
Lot of descriptive food.
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