In compiling a list of the illustrious people who visited Williams College in the sixties, or who found themselves strolling about the grounds in some way, in just glancing at the names I sometimes puff myself up with self importance and allow myself to boast to myself about all those many famous people I've encountered in my life, or at least back in a time when the social lines were wavier and there was a bit more freedom of social movement.
What follows is drawn from a series of recollections that I put together in 1999 in the hopes that some theme would emerge to allow me to make a point about something, and the incident I am describing occurred nearly thirty years prior. Remember, this is a small incident in a small city that had massive political protests nearly every day then and much thumping of heads with nightsticks and all the real violence was meted out as punishment and handed down by the authority figures nearly every day.
That's pretty much what was going on down near the University every day at the time I met
Jerzy Kosinski.
Perhaps partly as the result of such recent external stressers and the prolonged effects of tear gas on my system, as an unfortunate though temporary consequence I was moving into a state of anti-social behavior at that time, which presented itself as not knowing what to say in conversations I'd listened to over recent meals, and whatever might have happened in the way of political or social upheaval at the University campus was soon followed by a dinner party at the estate.
This gathering assembled downstairs in the building which in more ancient times had been used to house the estate's peacocks in inclement weather. I had been seated next to Jerzy Kosinski, who was in the area for some polo or dressage competition across the Bay. Dressage, if I need to explain is a very elite and expensive form of equestrian competition, far more demanding back then than now. The young hostess dedicated herself to that exacting and, I again remind you very, very expensive discipline, a form of training steeped in history and ritualized competition of specialized movements, which she devoted herself to wholeheartedly and it was nothing to be sniffed at.
So Jerzy was there. Jerzy was garbed in a tan, nearly military-looking outfit, with epaulets and high banded collar. The cut of his jacket was a bit stiff in appearance. Though utilitarian tan in color, the cloth had a luxurious expensive sheen, and was from an expensive imported and polished cotton or a gabardine.
Although I was seated next to him at the table, there was little conversation between us. I know where I was at, I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. But he did not have a lot to say to any of us at the table. Either he was moody or we were obviously too "alternative" or "poor" or some of us "Berkeley" for his tastes. That’s why I have to tell you what he was wearing.
At that time, I had read a few things by him, and though "The Painted Bird" was the most famous of his achievements, I wasn’t about to talk to him about that.
I had several years prior read his semi-autobiographical novel, "The Painted Bird", a book which brought the everyday realities of war to light in such sheer creepy savagery that I could not for the life of me bring up that topic at the dinner table.
I remembered the cover of that edition being a painting taken from Hieronymous Bosch, as if to hint at the unimaginable hell held between the covers, so Hieronymous was off topic for me, too.
That evening, Jerzy was a bit difficult for any to engage in conversation over dinner. He gave off weird vibes, I thought. He didn't want to connect with anyone, it seemed to me. He kind of gave me the creeps, I recall that impression distinctly but I assumed that was because of where I was at.
In learning more about him since, he kind of survived by moving through life insulating himself by staying mostly in the company of the immensely wealthy. He may have been disappointed that he'd been invited to an opulent and expansive estate and was forced to dine with people who weren't his real kind of people, and the home cooked meal although a perfectly roasted beef and potatoes was served at a kitchen table in a side building. This gathering had nothing whatsoever to do with Williams College as a school, and I mention this encounter only because I am name-dropping famous visitors to the estate, the artists and creatives and the literati, especially those during the sixties when I was in residence who'd I'd actually broken bread with if not shared a few words with.
Up to this time, Williams College only claim to real literary fame was carried on the shoulders of Irving Wallace who had attended the writing school at Williams Institute back in the '30s. While enrolled there he had an imaginary interview with a thoroughbred racehorse and sold his first story to
Horse and Jockey for five bucks. His book "The Chapman Report" had been given another life on the big screen as a popular movie of the '50s. Irving Wallace. No comment from me that evening, not on Irving.
I am the first to admit that Kosinski did not so much put pen to paper at the dinner party at Williams College. But his presence there, which was unknown to me until I'd arrived for dinner seating, can with a bit of imagination fall in to the realm of odd coincidence. I was as I said in an anti-social mood, also in part because I had recently eavesdropped on a late-night conversation in Buddy's Cafe, at the corner of 10th and University. Buddy's was close in vicinity to the local racetrack, and offered a Racetrack Special (a breakfast for 99 cents) designed to appeal to the habitues of the ponies. Even though I knew from reading beatnik histories and could offer up a colorful remark on Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady hitting the track at Golden Gate Fields, I could find no opening to allow me to extemporize on this theme. And the fact that another resident of the estate actually snagged a part-time job as a cold walker in the very early mornings at that very racetrack off I-80. So I didn't talk horses.
Anyway, I was in an anti-social mood because it seemed theworld was falling asunder all around me. There was all that crap going on around the campus, which I had to go to every day for classes. Then while having a cup of coffee on a workbreak late one evening, I'd quite recently overheard
John Fahey at Buddy's Cafe telling ED and Gloria Denson something about how people in the Manson family had come up to Berkeley and had visited the offices of his record company. I couldn't hear all he'd said, but as I was seated at the counter, hearing a bit about this, even the name
Manson, my blood began running cold. I remember turning around to see who was recounting this story, just as the narrator pronounced, "And everybody caught the clap" and I vividly recall the angry expression flashing across Gloria's face.
The coincidence is that Jerzy Kosinski himself had narrowly avoided what would have been a much deadlier encounter with this group, and that story was just beginning to circulate as well. So I couldn't in any way bring that up as a topic of conversation at the dinner table, either. I just didn't know what to say to Jerzy.
All of this followed directly on the heels of an ill-timed comment I had made at work one evening. A remark which was made in a humorous way and tossed out casually in public. My comment, as I was joking around with another waitress as we'd been asking each other the typical introductory question of the time we each heard dozens of times each evening, "Hey, what's your sign?" In so doing, we determined we were both air signs or had some astrological connection or similarity, which was followed by a playful observation on my part, "Wow, we're sisters of the zodiac". A person overheard this comment about "
The Zodiac". Likely being a person who was influenced by the newspaper headlines of the day, the eavesdropper left the premises and summoned the police. The following evening as I reported to work, my boss was obliged to direct the detectives to me to listen to my explanation.
And as this was a fresh experience, the significance of which I was still digesting, I couldn't work it into dinner table conversation, either.
I should have called this post "Dasein" as that would have been a nifty literary allusion to the working title of one of Jerzy's more famous works. But also because "Dasein" basically is used to describe a person’s current state and time of existence and I have been trying to describe where I was at that particular moment in history.
http://www.johnfahey.com/Blood.htm
Retrieved 7.8.11
