William Harrison: Author, mentor, supporter, friend
Athletes, they say, die twice— once when they retire, then again when they draw their last breath. Authors, by contrast, are thought to be immortal and live on through their books. But, although they may linger in the limbo of libraries and on remainder tables, the overwhelming majority of them age in obscurity, outliving their few fans and enthusiastic critics.
Of course there are exceptions— the Philip Roths and Alice Munros who announce that they have retired yet remain in everyone’s mind, so much so that there’s no surprise when they continue to receive public acclaim and even win the Nobel Prize. But 99 percent of published authors know they are breathing borrowed oxygen that will eventually evaporate. And while they seldom come in for celebration, it’s worth remembering writers who never gave in to bitterness and behaved with good grace until the end.
William Harrison, who died Oct. 22, was such a writer, a representative figure whose passing deserves wider attention than it is apt to get. An author of nine novels, three short-story collections and countless screenplays, he was by any reasonable yardstick a success. His story Roller Ball Murders was made into the movie Rollerball, and his novel Burton & Speke was filmed as Mountains of the Moon. But he was largely unknown except by those who read and admired his work, or who met and admired the man.
I met Bill in 1970 at the age of 27, two months before my first novel came out. Already established as a university professor and contributor to magazines ranging from Esquire and Playboy to prestigious literary quarterlies, Bill displayed none of the elbows-out competitiveness that plagues the profession. To the contrary, he welcomed me as a colleague, kept in touch over the years and responded to my books with a fine balance of encouragement and helpful criticism.
But it wasn’t until much later that we became closer when we both began to feel like spare parts for a machine that has been declared obsolete. At the age of 50 after 13 books, I suddenly found it impossible to get published. Bill, a decade older than I, was in a similar situation. The business had changed, or we had changed, but while I bridled, Bill stayed his same sweet self, joking that he loved to listen to my “lyrical complaining.”
For me, the drought dragged on from 1993 until 2003, and midway through that dry stretch when I feared I would shrivel up and blow away, Bill offered more than an ear into which I poured my endless dolors. At a time when all my books were out of print, he invited me to the University of Arkansas where he made sure that as a guest writer I was treated like a luminary by students and by a boisterous group who attended my public lecture. It wasn’t until afterward that I learned that this crowd of riveted auditors had come to the campus for an Elder Hostel—or was it a Hostile Elder?— program.
My week of being feted in Fayetteville was tonic for my morale. And Bill topped things off by recommending me to a small publishing house in Missouri which somehow managed to get Putnam to bring out my next two novels. After that I proceeded to publish five more books, making my 60s my most productive decade. None of this would have been possible—not even plausible—without Bill’s help.
I would have loved Bill and been saddened by his death even had he never gone to bat for me. It was more than enough that he listened to my laments and remained a friend for 43 years. In a last e-mail sent shortly after his final trip to Mayo Clinic, he barely mentioned his own health, just swore he was “much improved … and have my head in tow again.” He was more eager to convey his “congratulations (typing, please)” at hearing I had a new book contract. It didn’t occur to him to tell me he was dying. He was never a lyrical complainer. He was an epic encourager, a mentor to hundreds of writers and would-be authors. Or as they say in Africa, a continent we both loved, Bill Harrison was a river to his family and friends.