Domoslawski’s note of regret here, as throughout, is suspect. He refers to Kapuscinski as “the master” and his “mentor.” He calls him his “friend” and makes clear they had conversations over several years; but lots of people in the book are identified as Kapuscinski’s friends who, more likely, met him once or twice in a professional setting, and, truly, Domoslawski seems to be one of these.

Kapuscinski kept two sets of notebooks when he traveled—one for the day-to-day dispatches he filed for the press agency, another for his subjective impressions. The source of his fame, you might say, was in the value added by that second set of notebooks in which, as he once put it, he attempted to record “the atmosphere of the street, the feeling of the people, the gossip of the town, the smell; the thousand, thousand elements of reality that are part of the event you read about in 600 words in your morning paper.” Strict accuracy was not his paramount concern; when a friend who had been with him during riots in Dar es Salaam commented that he had misreported certain details, she says he shouted at her, “You don’t understand a thing! I’m not writing so the details add up—the point is the essence of the matter.” Thus he left a long list of embellishments for Domoslawski to catalog. When Kapuscinski wrote, for example, that fish in Lake Victoria became big after feeding on the corpses dumped there by Idi Amin, he was telling a good tale, but not one that was true.

Many stories from The Emperor, perhaps Kapuscinski’s most celebrated book, have come in for similar scrutiny: the famous anecdote about Haile Selassie’s servant, whose job was to wipe the shoes of visitors who had been peed on by Lulu, the royal lapdog, for instance. Domoslawski finds an expert who asserts it was unlikely that Kapuscinski ever entered the palace, and that he probably heard the tale at a dinner party of local foreigners. But observers have doubted the literal truth of this book for years. Reviewing The Emperor in The New York Times in 1983, Xan Smiley wrote, “I suspect it is all a shade hyped up, a little too cleverly processed from stumbling interview to sleek literary parable.” Others say that Poles immediately recognized in The Emperor an allegory to the Communist clique that ran the country pre-Solidarity, with Kapuscinski criticizing them as best he could.

Now it has all been definitively weighed, from Selassie’s lapdog to whether Kapuscinski actually witnessed the massacre at Mexico’s Tlatelolco Square in 1968—and a whole lot of less-momentous questions as well. I suppose it was a necessary exercise.

But it is not especially enjoyable to read. One imagines “the master’s” ghost uneasy as his reputation is challenged once again by ideology—this time the ideology of factuality, of literal-mindedness. It happens to be an ideology to which I subscribe. So why do I flinch upon seeing Kapuscinski subjected to its rigors? Maybe because I like a good story, and enjoyed reading those books, and never assumed them to be perfectly true.

This book won the Grand Press prize, Poland’s top journalistic honor, but also prompted legal action by Kapuscinski’s widow Alicja, who tried and failed to stop publication. Domoslawski agonizes over the damage he correctly predicts his book will do to the dead man’s reputation. “I catch myself fearing that, without meaning to write an exposé, I am discovering facts about the master’s life which I would rather not know at all, and that I am creating a platform for massively negative opinions of him,” he writes. Still, he continues, “a portrait of Kapuscinski in which frailties and flaws are visible is more genuine than a beatified icon…isn’t this version of Kapuscinski more interesting than the one that is flattered to death?”

Ted Conover is a distinguished writer-in-residence at New York University's Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute. His latest book is The Routes of Man, about roads.