Whatever happened to Jerzy Kosinski?
I hadn't followed the story, so I never knew
Until I happened on it yesterday in a book
Review. Time was, all a teenager knew
Was that this was a famous writer, important,
The kind one hadn't read but should,
The kind even an Ivy League university
Boasted to have on the faculty, the kind
Who wrote serious, satirical novels
That were turned into seriously satirical
Movies nominated for Academy Awards,
The kind famous photographers portrayed
For the covers of weekly newsmagazines,
That kind. There was an anecdote
In a feature at the time, describing Kosinski
As a teacher, how he once walked in late
To his morning literature class at Princeton
Where the students all sat dutifully, quietly
At their long wooden table-desks, waiting
Without a murmur, and he turned on his heel
Then returned a few minutes later,
The puzzled students still waiting patiently,
Strode to the front row and held out
A pocket mirror he had procured, under
The nose of a startled but silent young man.
Kosinski checked the mirror and announced,
"Good! I just wanted to be sure you were still
Living." The scenario appealed to a kid
Not in that class with that famous writer
But who had attended, fitfully, Princeton.
As a graduate student in Montana and later
Georgia, I sometimes retold the story, as if
I had been there. I thought it was funny.
It was an excuse to name-check Kosinski
And Princeton, to pretend I had been close
To something akin to celebrity genius.
I noticed, however, after a few retellings,
That the name Kosinski no longer resonated
With any newer college kids, and I dropped it
Without ever looking into it. I suppose
I assumed he had simply faded from fame,
Although by that time he was already dead,
A suicide. I'd only read a couple stories
Of his, plus that magazine feature. Vaguely,
It crossed my mind once or twice to wonder
Why his name could no longer conjure.
Come to find out finally, accidentally, scandal
Had demolished his glossy reputation.
He had lied, Munchausen-style, about
The horrific orphan past that had made him
Famous as much as had his books, and he'd
Used unpaid, uncredited assistants to shape
His much-praised English prose. Eerie,
If only because the greatness he'd been
Granted so easily sank without apology,
If not completely without a trace. Remember,
Children wishing to be great and near
The great, all of culture is the Trickster, not
Any one little tricksy liar inside. What culture
Says, it swallows, never any so grand nor
Minor but lying made and remade them so.
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