Author Charyn has written a dazzling novel - a literary "bio" - of the shadowy fakir Kosinski who ruled the NYC roost until it was discovered he didnt really exist. This smackdown is smart, inventive, provocative and, guess what?, extremely droll, which reviews do not suggest. Michael Chabon calls Charyn "one of the most important writers in American literature," and he may well be right. "Before there was Kosinski, there was Peter Sellers" is the ripe opening line. And we're off as Sellers, eager to film "Being There" is sick of playing Inspector Clouseau, though he's a royal family pet, as a result, like a toy dog. What's more, Princess Margaret, "something of a toy dog herself," is the object of his lust. Sellers had read that Chauncey Gardiner was one of "Ma'm's" favorite characters and Gardiner seems like a perfect vehicle for Sellers. Now the rights must be secured from Mr. K, "a bird-boy, a freak...forever secretive and cruel, with cunning as his protective color."
Soon we're at an NYC cocktail party given by Sen. Lionel Jaspers (ie, Jacob Javits) whose wife Annabelle (Marion Javits) rules Manhattan's High Culture: "There wasn't an emerging playwright, dancer, novelist, painter, architect or musician" who didn't wanna push into her penthouse. She's adopted Jerzy Kosinski : "He owned the authentic stink of Mittel Europe." What made him so popular? "He had survived the Holocaust as a bird-boy who had lost the power to sing or fly."
Charyn mixes fact-fiction with more spirit than Kosinski whose fantasy savagery gave readers of "The Painted Bird" (1965) wet panties, my god, how they got off about a Polish tot in W2 being hurled into a manure pile. They purred with S&M moans! Of course, it didnt happen to Jerzy, though he suggested it was all true -- until 1982 when Geoffrey Stokes & Eliot Fremont-Smith of NYs The Village Voice denounced him as a fakir. Possibly a CIA asset. Anyway, they reported that his novels were written by several "assistants" and some plots were plagiarized from old Polish tales unknown here. By now he was a social climbing Beau Brummel dining with film stars, publishers, politicians, tastemakers. His publicity was handled by NYT editors, Rosenthal & Gelb, who called him the ultimate survivor and they, after all, were proud connoisseurs of schlock. Jers gave 'em stiffies. They even had him pose half-naked for a NYT Magazine cover (Google: images). "Lies, lies, lies," Jers says here, "I'm a fraud. I cannot write without a helper."
Stalin's daughter, Svetlana, his neighbor in Princeton, offers a most captivating segment. Receiving tons of mail from good, kind people in Nebraska and Kansas, she signed her replies Lana. "I had the right to borrow it from Lana Turner. Couldn't I be a vamp and a witch even if I did not have all the Western wiles of seduction." Eventually they meet at the Nassau Inn, but, she asks, "What did he do all day? He didn't write, didn't teach, even though he was an honored lecturer, the genius who wrote 'The Painted Bird.' " He was always holding court at the Nassau Inn. They became friends and she keeps him company when he has a bout of depression and wants to do a prank, like robbing a bank. "They can't arrest you, Lana, you'll be on the cover of Time." Svetlana is not amused. "I dream of literature and wine, and all you can think about is the cover of Time Magazine," she scolds.
We also meet his millionairess wife and a dominatrix: "I order you to bite my nipples." Ah no, "I can't. My teeth are too soft. They'll fall out." She isnt appeased. "You should have worn your dentures. Bite my nipples."
This is true. It wasnt easy being Jers Kosinski - a psycho with many personalities. He killed himself in 1991 after attending a book party at the home of Gay Talese whose recent fake-book was "The Voyeur's Motel." (That party was the last straw). Talese told the NYT obit writer, "We were laughing last night." I bet you were.
Jers, I think, envied Andy Warhol, which no one has mentioned. (Of course, Andy was gay and Jers dare not speak his name). Andy ran a "Factory," not a studio. In his Factory, he had multiple assistants making hundreds of silk-screens; no one complained. He was candid about his art process. Warhol became a "star" in the 60s as he polished his inarticulate persona. Jers couldnt stop talking or appearing on Talk Shows. And worse, he said he wrote his novels in English, a deadly lie. He is the author of his own catastrophe and herein author Charyn shows that he was either ludicrous or pathetic.