From the Publisher
“Extraordinary...Reading [Ian Frazier] one thinks of such American originals as John McPhee, Wallace Stegner, Edward Hoagland, Peter Matthiessen, and Evan S. Connell.” The Washington Post Book World
“Trust Ian Frazier to break new ground in the literature about fishing...his humor and imagination infuse the seventeen essays...with the manic enthusiasm few anglers can ever explain.” The New York Times Book Review
“[Frazier] is a keen observer and a genuine lover of nature. On every page is a description that brings the air, sky, water, rocks, flies, and fish stunningly, startlingly to life.” The Boston Globe
“The Fish's Eye deserves a place in every tackle box on every creek bank in America....A prodigious but casual genius... Frazier's also a whale of a reporter.” San Francisco Examiner
“Deliciously bent outdoor essays, most of which involve a fly rod.” Men's Journal
“It's hard to imagine a more heartfelt book, or one more lovingly rendered.” Booklist (starred review)
“[Frazier's] such an incredible writer that even readers who don't care much about fishing will find in The Fish's Eye a welcoming spot to sit and cast about pondering the depths of life.” Los Angeles Times
“Witty, insightful...This gem belongs in waterproof pockets and urban backpacks.” New York Post
“A great read...[He] is a kindred spirit whose writing has the warmth and humbleness of an old friend.” Big Sky Journal
Celebrated humorist and nonfiction author Ian Frazier, whose books have ranged from hilarious essays on pop culture to serious works about the plight of Native Americans, switches gears with this eloquent, delightful book on the joys of fishing. Written over a period of about 20 years, the essays that comprise The Fish's Eye find the author in a variety of locations -- from the Adirondacks to the Rocky Mountains -- in search of a bite. Frazier achieves a tone that is both lighthearted and introspective, a quality that will appeal to anglers of every stripe.
All 17 of the angling pieces Frazier (On the Rez) has written over the last 20 years have now been preserved in one volume. Attentive readers of the New Yorker over the last two decades will have caught most of these pieces before, but anglers and essay fans (not to mention Frazier devotees) should be glad to revisit gems like "An Angler at Heart," his 1981 profile of a Manhattan tackle dealer. Frazier's sharp eye and self-implicating wit is at work in these charming but unsentimental pieces, whether he's describing his penchant for mayflies in "It's Hard to Eat Just One," a family fishing trip in which his kids prefer a drainage ditch to the trout stream in "A Lovely Sort of Lower Purpose," or a Central Park pond where the fishermen are as likely to catch empty potato chip bags as catfish in "Anglers." Many of these essays are, in fact, about fishing in the city, and Frazier often wrings more suspense and meaning from a muddy stream that runs "From Wilderness to Wal-Mart" than some outdoor adventure writers get from an expedition through Nepal. His paeans to the angling experience set the standard in this subgenre, yet will amuse many who've never set foot in a tackle shop. (Apr.) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
So what did Frazier do for a break while researching and writing major works like Great Plains and On the Rez? Obviously, he was off fishing. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Much-praised nonfiction author Frazier (On the Rez, 2000, etc.) gathers together 20 years of musings on fishing in one slim but entertaining volume. In "An Angler at Heart," fishing-tackle expert Jim Deren defines the essay's title phrase as describing someone who understands "the call of the wild, the instinct of the hunt. It's a throwback to the forest primeval." Frazier makes no claim to this distinction, but his profile of Deren and his shop, the Angler's Roost (closed for about 20 years now), makes vivid the great passion fishing can inspire and provides a touchstone for the entire collection. The mostly short essays find Frazier awaking before dawn in Brooklyn to make it to the Jersey shore in quest of stripers, sweating in his chest waders as he battles through clouds of black flies in search of trout in the Adirondacks, and breaking through underbrush to get to just the right deep pool. Throughout, he describes his surroundings and relationships. "Fishing Without Dad" is a sweet riff on Frazier's softhearted father, who hated it when Ian actually managed to hook anything. "On Urban Shores" is as much a portrait of the wilds of Manhattan as it is a story about catching a fish. "Five Fish" shows the author attempting to play casually with his kids at the water's edge before he is driven to drop them off at home and race back to the river, shaking with the need to get to his favorite angling spot in the lee of a fallen cottonwood tree. Through it all runs the rill of self-deprecation and light humor so necessary to the fisherman's sanity in this solitary and frustrating pursuit. A must for literary fishing enthusiasts; a pleasant diversion for the rest of us.
Read an Excerpt
On the paved shores of the Harlem Meer (one of six ponds in the city's park system which the State Department of Environmental Conservation in cooperation with the New York City Parks Department, the New York City Department of the Aging, and the New York State Sea Grant stocked with bullhead catfish on June 27 as part of an urban fishing program designed to stimulate city dwellers' interest in fishing and the outdoors), on a weekday afternoon in July:
"Gregory, how much worm should I use?"
"What you got there is enough, Andrew. Bet with your head, not over it."
Across the pond, a man standing under the trees started playing a three-note progression on the trumpet over and over again, holding each note a long time.
A boy pulled up a white tube sock with a yellow stripe and a blue stripe which had been dangling in the water, and something scuttled off it.
"Look, Gregory! Look at the lobster!"
"That ain't no lobster, fool, that's a crayfish. Throw him back. Throw him back to his mama."
An empty can of Sunkist orange (the new soft drink introduced a couple of months ago) came drifting by.
"Did you pass this year?"
"Yeah, man, 'course I passed."
Across the pond, the man with the trumpet started playing each note in the three-note progression four times and in such a way as to hit it differently each time.
A plastic terrestrial globe came floating by, with just Antarctica above the waterline.
"We had a nice fish, but some people took it." The arm of a Negro doll came floating by.
"Oh, man, my line's stuck. I have got to get it off. I have got to get it off."
"Pull on it, Derek."
"I don't get my line off, I can't get back in my house. I got my keys on there for a sinker."
The line came free, revealing a set of keys on an "I LOVE NY" key ring from a savings bank.
The man with the trumpet started playing "I Get a Kick Out of You."
An empty bag of Wise onion-garlic potato chips came floating by.
Two girls with their hair in cornrows took a look at four catfish in a yellow plastic bucket. "These boys should let the fish go," one girl said.
"Are you kidding? Those fish could die out in that water," the other girl said.
HARLEM AND HUDSON
At the Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin in New York City, on Labor Day, about fifty people are fishing in the Hudson River. There is no shore, no beach-there is a walkway paved with asphalt, a railing, and a concrete drop into the dark-olive water.
A little boy sitting on a plastic tricycle in the tunnel leading to the Boat Basin-the tunnel under the West Side Highway sees a motorboat go by in the part of the river framed by the tunnel mouth. "Look at that fas'-movin' object!" he says.
One of the fishermen starts to reel in quickly. His rod is bent. When he pulls his line over the railing, it looks as if he has a giant hook on the end of his line. It is an eel that has kind of seized in that position for a moment. The eel starts to wiggle and flop so wildly that its body describes a blurry sphere. The fisherman yells in Spanish, and then slaps the eel down on the pavement with a fall overhead motion of his fishing rod. He starts to kick the still-squirming eel along the pavement. He kicks it quite a distance.
A man who lives off the very rich garbage containers outside the fenced-off dock for the biggest yachts decides to throw away his belongings, which he carries in two black Hefty bags. He throws the bags into the river, but they don't float very far away. Then he holds up his hand to stop some people who are walking by, and taking a lightbulb from an inner coat pocket, he also throws that into the river, much farther than the bags. He looks at the people, winks, and puts his finger to his lips.
Another of the fishermen finishes a Kool cigarette and tosses it into a yellow bucket at his feet. In the bucket, along with a few other Kool butts turning brown in auras of brown stain, are two striped bass, both over twenty inches.
Farther upriver, but still within New York City limits, a hundred and fifty or two hundred people are fishing along the shore from Spuyten Duyvil, where the Harlem River empties into the Hudson, up to the Refined Sugars and Syrups Company plant, at the boundary of Riverdale. Along this section of river there are neighborhoods of fishermen: from the point where the Harlem and the Hudson meet to about a quarter mile upstream are black fishermen and fisherwomen and their families; beyond that, farther upstream, the fishermen and fisherwomen are mostly Spanish-speaking; and beyond that, they are mostly Japanese. The Harlem River for the few hundred yards downstream from the Spuyten Duyvil railroad station to the Hudson is a mixed neighborhood, with some whites, some Puerto Ricans, and some blacks. Amtrak passenger and freight trains, to and from New York, and Conrail commuter trains run on tracks within forty feet of the water's edge. Along the tracks are third rails with the warning "Danger 700 Volts" on them. Between the tracks are white pieces of paper with the heading "Message to Our Commuters" blowing around, and a copy of Tennis USA magazine with Björn Borg on the cover and ads about how to work your way through college by playing tennis on the inside.
Big rocks put there by the railroad are along the shore. In the Spanish-speaking section of riverfront, two men and a woman are sitting on the rocks. One of the men has no shirt on, and the other man is wearing a gray shirt with flowers so pink that they attract bees. Bees are actually buzzing around him, but he does not notice. The woman is reading an article in a magazine. The title of the article is "'Billy Martin en la Despedida: 'Soy un Yankee Ahora y Siempre'." The two men are fishing with eight-foot surf-casting rods, using sandworms for bait. One of the men snags a sandworm out of the bait carton with a plastic comb, and then he uses the comb to cut the sandworm in half on the rock. There are flashes of white in the river some distance out, and the other man jumps up and shouts, "Una mancha! Una mancha!" The man who was baiting up quickly casts to where the other man pointed. The English translation of una mancha is "a spot or a stain," but it can also mean a birthmark, a rash, or any kind of surface disturbance. People shout it along this section of river when the see striped bass chasing baitfish.
Copyright (c) 2002 Ian Frazier