Book-awards season began in earnest last week for fiction – the Man Booker Prize and the American Book Award last Tuesday, the Nobel on Thursday – and once again, we are completely lost.

The American Book Awards are different from the National Book Awards … how? Is it like a National League/American League-type of thing? Which is the one that Philip Roth is always nominated for? Don’t tell anyone, but before last week we did not know that the Booker was named for a corporation. We assumed it was a dude, or an affectionate British-y version of “bookworm.”

Clearly, assistance is needed. Bring in the lesson plan. Bring in the Tweed Brigade.

Let’s start with the Nobel, the wizened Swedish aristocrat of the bunch, the first modern literary prize, founded in 1901 and now coming with buckets of cash that writers either keep or reinvest in other writers.

“The Nobel itself is very weird,” says Alan Cheuse, a writer and George Mason professor who has served on juries for the National Book Awards and the PEN/Faulkner. “It’s gone to some wonderful writers and some complete non-entities, for who knows what office or geographical politics. It’s gone to some Swedish writers that you ain’t never heard of.” (Eyvind Johnson? Carl Gustaf Verner von Heidenstam?)

Americans have always whined that the Nobel, despite awards to Third World writers, is too Eurocentric. Then, last year, a Nobel judge said publicly that Europe was “the center of the literary world” and Americans went Ah-HA! and felt justified.

Nonetheless, the Nobels are astronomically prestigious. “If you say to a writer, ‘What do you want to win,’ they wouldn’t say the Nobel because that would suggest they’re kind of insane,” Cheuse says. “It’s like saying they want to be immortal.”

Much better to shoot for a Pulitzer. Coveting the Pulitzer is like saying you only need to live to be 112.

The Pulitzers go to epic, fat, sweeping American novels, like “A Thousand Acres” and “Empire Falls.” American experiences. American themes. Judges are always describing the finalists as “haunting” or emotionally walloping, or downright painful. (That’s the one Philip Roth was always up for; he won in 1998. He’s also won three PEN/Faulkners. And two National Book Awards.)

The Pulitzer is particularly good for book recognition in the United States, because everyone here knows the name.

None of it can be scientific. There’s always vote-swapping and bargaining and some judge stubbornly sticking with some nomination no one else likes because it reminds him of his boyhood at Exeter. “We got well over 500 applicants” for the National Book Awards, says novelist Marianne Wiggins, who has served as a judge and was herself a Pulitzer finalist. “There’s no triage. You basically get down to 20 or 30 and then the arguments start.” Sometimes, “you’re not going to get a signature of excellence. You’re going to get a signature of democratic decision.”

And then a decision is made, and then ... and then what? The whole awards juggernaut is “a rather desperate attempt to pump some life into flagging sales,” Wiggins says. “Most of the country doesn’t follow these awards anymore anyway.”

There’s the National Book Critics Circle Award, which is bestowed by reviewers and not, as most others are, by fellow writers. An NBCC judge gives it a winningly impassioned plug: “Perhaps not as high profile as the NBA,” writes Library Journal editor Barbara Hoffert, “but beloved by those in the know.” She suggests that the award is “a bit edgier, a bit freer.” She mentions that the attire for the NBCC awards show is jeans.

And the Man Booker? The one that is named after the wholesale company? That’s a British award, too, and kind of interesting.

It allows English-language entrants from all over the world – Canada, South Africa, Australia, Zimbabwe – except for the United States. Not cool, Booker.

And yet, in some ways, we appreciate it. One small award, wielding whatever diabolical power it can over an industry that gets most of its money from Dan Brown and Jackie Collins? Booker, good for you.