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I FIRST MET the writer Jim Harrison in 1989 when I was an editor at Vogue with the book section in my purview and most of his work under my belt. When his publisher announced the reissue of all his fiction up to that point, it was the perfect occasion for a profile. Within days I arranged an interview and assigned a writer. Then, I came to my senses, lied to the writer and booked my own series of flights from New York to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where Jim spent long stretches writing in the cabin he kept there.
Jim…