Well, it depends on the liver …
I was reminded of this old homonymic quip while reading the smart opening paragraph in a book review for Artur Domosławksi’s “Ryszard Kapuściński: A Life:”
Journalists are the livers of society, organs that break down the myriad poisons of war, revolution, and labyrinthine legal complexity for a body politic. They are also the livers in another sense—their professional function is to go out and live, to experience, explain, bear witness, and provide insight.
I’ve long been a fan of Kapuściński, warts and all. And apparently Domosławski corroborates what many reviewers and critics have noted since his death—that his books are riddled with historical mistakes, distortions, exaggerations, lies, and secondhand stories presented as facts.
But as I wrote before, I still tend to think of RK as a brilliant, flawed and slightly nutty, if not tragic, character, who did his thing in however odd ways, compromised himself where he thought he needed in order to maximize his opportunities for pretty wild adventures (e.g. be permitted to travel). Reading about those adventures, however fictitious, has always given me a special thrill.