By Rudy Wilson
Over the years since the Knopf published The Red Truck, two other books have come out, with smaller book publishers, never with the clout of Knopf, and never seen by Gordon Lish as he had left Knopf by then.
Gordon continued to be magnanimous. He wrote, “”Excellent Rudy What a dear heart you are to write. I am so glad you are of high heart and I am always happy to read anything you wish me to – for Q or for Knopf… All yours, signed GL.” He said more than once, “We write for God and art.” I brought up Bret Easton Ellis’s success, and he said, “Well, maybe, but once you get dirt on the floor, you will never get it clean.”
Some years later The Red Truck was published by a second press, which was inept and sold maybe fifty books in a year. Gordon sent condolences and suggested I read his most recent book, Zimzum. I asked him advice on how to run a Writers’ Workshop and humbly, he laughed and said, “You’re asking me?”
His latest, probably last note to me, last summer was so perplexing. It concerned the third, out-of-mothballs publication of the battered Red Truck, with Ravenna Press. I sent him a copy, as well as a second book they printed, a collection of short fiction I had published over many years, Sonja’s Blue.
His note read, oddly, surprisingly: “Thanks for the book! Curious – that you did not like Knopf, especially given the citations (from reviews) on the back cover, too, that your kindness nowhere mentions the distance and manner of The Red Truck’s travel from original ms. to finished ms. Do you remember? Are you aware? Are you willing to give credit? Explain, please.” No signature.
I felt confused, even sad. I had no control over the new issue’s cover art or jacket information. Perhaps I should have dedicated the book to Gordon or put his name on the cover. I recalled, thinly, “I wish I could put my name on it…” Maybe I’d hurt or not credited the man enough, somehow.
There was always a sense of isolation about Gordon Lish. He presided in a position of personal power, a master in his world, well-respected, with strong opinions, and a history of making and breaking of authors. And yet, his notes to me over the many years and the most recent one indicate and inform me that he is a man of heart and sensitivity, humor, even with a certain fragility after all this time of infamy in the business. He was my friend. And I give him all the credit he deserves.
I’ve pretty much ridden the Red Truck into the ground. It sits outside in my tall-grassed, back yard, silently, a faded, now red-orangish, 1950 pickup, cracked windshield, birds’ nests in the front seat with wild flowers and weeds in the back truck-bed. A sentimental icon of the years: there’s the worn steering wheel, having been to NYC many times. Somewhere, in the glove compartment would be a black and white picture, twenty or more years old of myself and Mr. Lish, Capt. Fiction, standing close to me on a Manhattan sidewalk, uptown – one of us smiling.
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