The Trout Fisher

Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of Richard Brautigan's death. Well, not the actual anniversary; the police broke into his house in Bolinas and found his body on October 25, 1984, but he had been dead for weeks. Ten years earlier he had been one of the best known poets in America ("best known poet" may be an oxymoron), but the trajectory of his public persona was steep and brief. He died alone.

A child of extreme poverty and abuse, damaged beyond belief, he was committed to the Oregon State Hospital in 1955 where he was treated with electric shock therapy. The Oregon State Hospital is where One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was filmed and it was, by all accounts, a snake pit. He managed to survive and made his way to San Francico where he roamed the streets handing out his poems to passersby. This was years before the hippies came to the Haight. He published several slim volumes of poetry that posted almost no sales before Trout Fishing in America appeared in 1967. It went on to sell 4 million copies.

Despite his stunning success, his demons were never far below the surface and finally took his life. His work is mostly dismissed by modern critics, but it will always have meaning for me. I discovered The Pill vs. the Springhill Mine Disaster when I was 13 and fell head over heels in love with his brevity, clarity, wit, honesty, and strange lyricism. Rest well, Richard. You earned it.

Your Catfish Friend
by Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of scales and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge of my affection and think
"It's beautiful here by this pond. I wish somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."