The book, which was a scandalous best seller in Europe, was on its way to American stores in 1988 when Random House’s lawyers grew alarmed and had it recalled – though enough copies got loose to make it an underground mini-classic. The version that has now been released by Viking has been trimmed of a few pages – ““There was too much mo- notonous sex with chambermaids,’’ says the book’s ed- itor – but includes new details about Kinski’s final years in California. Initials now disguise a few potentially litigious figures.
What made the book a cult sensation are its portraits of film people and its horror-comedy accounts of sex. Directors are idiots (Werner Herzog ““should be thrown alive to the crocodiles!’’), and every woman is a panting gargoyle – none of which keeps Kinski from a whirlwind career, or from giving his libido an epic workout on nearly every page. It’s the cheerful relish Kinski takes in his own ego- mania that earns the book a place on the camp shelf, alongside such wonders as ““Hollywood Babylon’’ and Anas Nin’s unexpurgated diaries.
