Metawritings: Toward a Theory of Nonfiction

Winner Take Nothing

winner take nothing 167 BERNARD COOPER “Yes, I think I write to say what I haven’t yet been able to articulate, and to use language to give a name to amorphous emotions and states of mind. Words contain and give a provisional shape to what is otherwise nameless and unexpressed. It seems only logical that the elusive nature of language would be of interest to a writer.” Winner Take Nothing When I received word informing me that my first book had been chosen for the PEN/Hemingway Foundation Award, I held the letter in trembling hands while the following thoughts,in precisely this order,shot through my head: 1. I won the Ernest Hemingway award! 2. I don’t deserve it. 3. My father’s heard of Ernest Hemingway! I ran a couple of laps around the house, elated, not just because of the letter, but because I remembered seeing a hardback volume of The Snows of Kilimanjaro on the shelves in my father’s upstairs hall.Perhaps the book had belonged to one of my brothers, or was left behind by Esther. In any case, a novel by the award’s namesake was shelved right there in Dad’s very own home library, which would, as far as he was concerned, lend credence to the whole affair. I had to admit that my father had managed perfectly well without literature for his entire life, and I had no illusions that writing, especially mine, could enrich his life. He sometimes read Consumer Reports, but largely, I think, to sustain through retirement the image he had of himself as a citizen with buying power. His primary reading material was TV Guide, a map by which he and Rosa navigated nights in front of the Sony console, watching Wheel of Fortune, followed by the healings of the Reverend Benny Hinn. In the few instances when I told him I’d had something published in a magazine or literary review, the first question he asked was, “How much they pay you?” I suppose he thought of “they” as a faceless jury, twelve arbiters of taste. Imagine telling a man who 168 bernard cooper keeps his cash in a gold money clip shaped like a dollar sign that, after working on a piece of writing for months, you’ve been compensated with a complimentary copy of the publication.“You’re kidding,”he’d say, shaking his head as if I’d been duped in a shell game. Over time, I’d cultivated a certain temperance when sharing literary news with my father. I’d come to consider it unfortunate but not devastating that he was unable to recognize the arc—or was it the bump?—of my career. Still, I ached to have him slap me on the back, wanted to hear his unstinting praise, and in it the honeyed pronouncement: Son. Toward this end, I’d once given him something of mine to read. I chose a brief reminiscence about my mother, who had once dreamed of writing a book into which she’d pack every anecdote she could recall, starting with her immigration from Russia to the United States. Immigration isn’t quite the right word; what she told me was that she and her parents swam across the Atlantic Ocean to the shores of North America when she was two. I was young enough at the time to believe such a feat was possible,and my credulity inspired her to add that,if the “authorities” ever discovered she’d entered the country illegally, they’d knock on our door and deport her,and that’s why she never applied for a driver’s license. Needless to say, my gratitude for having a mother grew instantly acute. I thought my father would find the tone of this reminiscence unmistakably fond. And so I handed him the pages one day, neatly stapled. Before I let go of the manuscript (feeling him tug it from the other side was the closest I’d come to his tangible enthusiasm), I told him I hoped he would enjoy reading it and assured him he was under no obligation to offer comments. Days went by. Weeks. Months. In all the times we saw one another or spoke on the phone, he never mentioned reading it, and pride prevented me from coming right out and asking. If it hadn’t been for a chokingly potent vodka tonic I drank when we met for dinner one night at...