Edward Cooper, the father referred to in the title, was a hurricane of irascibility, a whirlwind of contrariness. By the time he died in his mid-nineties, uncoupled by dementia, he had lost his savings to a series of petulant, ill-conceived lawsuits, alienated the few friends he ever possessed, and filled his only surviving son with a monograph’s worth of neuroses. This book is written by that son, Bernard Cooper, a novelist and critic who has penned two previous memoirs.
A successful Los Angeles divorce attorney, Edward had a temperament suited to advocacy: he was belligerent, unbending and able to return an opponent’s argument in the form of an insult. Unfortunately, though, he rarely left his lawyerly persona at work, and often browbeat his family. A typical diatribe arose when the author, concerned one day that his father had not eaten, told him that he should do so:
‘Who says?’
‘What?’
‘Who says I have to eat dinner? Where is it written? Is it written here?’ He hefted a law book and let it slam back onto the table. ‘Don’t you ever tell me what to do!’
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