I’ve been sitting on this a little while because, frankly, it is bizarre to read about an acquaintance of yours in the news. Our international editor, it seems, has written a memoir that has upset two other important Australian poets (I guess that piece about the fragility of intellectual friendships was especially timely). I’ve met John Kinsella a few times at English department functions at Kenyon, and at his poetry readings here; he has been nothing if not good company. Friends of mine took poetry with him and loved it. The person I know is far removed from the person who has showed up in the news, which is, I suppose, further proof that nonfiction and fiction are not so far apart:
Robert Adamson and Anthony Lawrence, both highly respected, award-winning poets, were horrified to read Kinsella’s lurid accounts of communal drug-taking sessions and pornography-watching. They have accused him of betraying their friendship, and of fabricating some of his stories.
I think there are probably worse things out there that could be revealed (or made up) via memoir than drug use and pornography-watching, but I suppose I am a member of a different generation.