chapter eighteen
Famed Author Accused of Plagiarism
By Andrew Terasawa
The rumors began soon after the critically acclaimed author Richard Forbes Chasen received the Booker Prize for his sprawling and ambitious postmodern novel, Subterranean City. The book, people whispered, had been plagiarized.
Chasen, 35, known as much for his rugged good looks as his sinewy prose, has been the subject of envy for years. Ever since he burst onto the literary scene at the age of twenty-one, he has collected several major literary prizes and was recently named to the New Yorker’s vaunted “Forty Under Forty” list. The Booker was just the latest in a long string of professional accolades.
That is, until a commentator on an online discussion board posted an innocent question about Chasen’s work.
“Has anyone noticed that Chasen totally rips off Dickens in Chapter 4 of Subterranean City?” a user named Bibliophyllis917 wrote. “Like not just parodies Dickens but actually copies his sentences word for word from Bleak House?”
“He’s openly acknowledged his debt to Dickens,” another member wrote back. “It’s no big deal.”
But the question posed by Bibliophyllis917 seemed to trigger a raft of similar observations. Discussion members pointed out sections of the novel in which pronouns or place names had been changed but in which the bulk of the language was otherwise identical to passages by contemporary writers, such as Salman Rushdie, Kurt Vonnegut, and Terry Eagleton. And Chasen didn’t just borrow from the literary and scholarly elite. A member with the handle KirkDaedelus alleged that Chasen had plagiarized from Rotten Tomatoes movie reviews, contemporary romance novels, and even a corporate training handbook.
Chasen had already been accused of “self- plagiarism” by Rian Murphy, a journalist and critic who has repeatedly called him out for recycling previous work on his Paris Review blog. Murphy has also expressed concern about Chasen’s journalistic practices. “I’ve found numerous instances in Chasen’s reportage where I couldn’t locate or confirm his sources,” Murphy says. “I started to suspect he might be fabricating quotations out of whole cloth. But when I confronted him about this, he always had some ready excuse. He claimed he had access to interviews that weren’t publicly available, or that he was bound by journalistic ethics from revealing his sources. It was always something or other.”
“It’s sick,” says one of Chasen’s most vocal critics, the novelist Alice Duffy. “His utter inability to be forthright and truthful suggests something on the order of a mental illness.”
Another writer, the legal scholar Lindell McKenzie, expressed shock when presented with evidence that Chasen had lifted several long passages from her 2007 nonfiction book, On Justice and Inequality. “When I saw how he’d taken my words without attribution, I felt—well, quite honestly, I felt like I’d been violated.”
Chasen’s supporters have bridled at these statements, calling them inflammatory and hysterical. The Guardian book critic Angus Malcolm, a longtime friend and advocate for Chasen’s work, says writers like Duffy and McKenzie are simply “jealous.” “There’s a long literary tradition of great artists borrowing from sources high and low,” he said. “Look it up. It’s called bricolage.” Virginia Miller, a literary scholar at Cornell University, concurs: “Poets like Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot often appropriated the works of other writers, and they were considered literary geniuses, not thieves.”
Yet these latest accusations are giving pause to even longtime fans of Chasen’s work. The New York Times has independently verified at least 67 instances of exact or near-exact plagiarism (see Table 1). Some instances are only a sentence or two long. Others go on for pages. Faced with such overwhelming evidence, Francesca Youngblood, a professor at Columbia who is writing a book on Chasen, said, “It’s pretty damning. I mean, maybe it’s a weird postmodern experiment or some kind of joke on the reader. I just hope he has some kind of explanation.”
Efforts to reach Chasen for comment were unsuccessful, but his New York–based literary agent, Timothy Brown, issued a statement in which he accused unnamed sources of mounting an “orchestrated vendetta” against Chasen. “Mr. Chasen is prepared to defend himself vigorously against these attacks,” Brown wrote. “We are in the process of seeking legal counsel and will pursue all possible options. In the meantime, we ask the public to withhold judgment.”
Whether Chasen’s Booker Prize will be rescinded is unclear. When contacted, the Booker Prize committee confirmed that they were investigating the matter but declined additional comment. Chasen is currently listed as a “Writer-in-Residence” at Fairfax College in California. A spokesperson for the school confirmed his employment there but would not provide further information, citing confidentiality laws.
Currently, Chasen’s publisher, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, has no plans to pull Subterranean City from the shelves. The novel has been a substantial hit for the press, selling nearly a million copies since it was awarded the Booker Prize in 2015. It was issued in paperback this past January.
Meanwhile, some are wondering why it took people so long to raise concerns about Chasen’s plagiarism.
The novelist Duffy has a couple theories. “First of all, I think a lot of people started the novel but didn’t get very far,” she said. “And then there’s the incredible level of trust readers place in authors. Even if they notice fishy passages, they’re inclined to give the author the benefit of the doubt.”
Legal scholar McKenzie has another hypothesis. “I think that lots of people think plagiarism isn’t that big of a deal,” she says. “I mean, look at all these students who copy and paste from Wikipedia. They think it’s a victimless crime.”
She shakes her head. “I’m a writer,” she says. “All I have are my words. If Richard Chasen steals them from me, he’s taken the most important thing I have.”
I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. Rick— a plagiarist? My mind couldn’t fathom it. There was nothing I held more sacred than words. It was what I studied, what I labored over, what I revered. To claim another person’s words as one’s own was unthinkable. It was the cardinal sin of writing.
I could still remember the first time I’d encountered plagiarism and how deeply it had offended me. I was in the third grade, and the teacher held up a book report and announced that whoever had written it had forgotten to put his or her name on the report. Chris Manning had leapt up to claim it, and the teacher asked him to read it aloud to the class. As I listened to him stumble through descriptions of the various species of penguins, I felt a sudden, sickening jolt of recognition.
“That’s my report,” I blurted out, jumping from my seat.
The class was speechless.
“Is it true?” the teacher asked.
Chris looked at me blankly, shrugged, and handed me the report. I clutched it to my chest, incredulous that someone would dare take credit for my words.
“Next time, remember to put your name on your work, Anne,” the teacher said.
More than twenty years later, I could still feel the anger I’d felt toward Chris. How could he? How could he claim my words as his own? And how could he be so cavalier about it when he was caught?
But Chris, I reminded myself, was a lazy and not-very-bright eight-year-old. Rick, on the other hand, was a highly acclaimed literary genius. There was no way he could pull something so egregious, and in such a clumsy, brazen way. I was sure of it. It just didn’t make sense.
By the time Larry appeared at my apartment a few minutes later, I’d almost convinced myself of Rick’s innocence.
“It can’t be true,” I told him. “Rick wouldn’t plagiarize.”
“Did you read the article?” Larry asked. He’d arrived armed with a bottle of tequila and a box of tissues and couldn’t seem to understand why I didn’t need either. “You must be in shock. They put passages from Rick’s novel next to their sources. It’s pretty blatant.”
“But there must be some reason he did this. Why would he risk it?”
“Maybe he can’t help himself? Maybe he has a compulsive disorder?”
“Where he can’t help but steal other people’s words? What is that even? Graphokleptomania?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. Did he ever let you read anything he was working on?”
“No,” I said. “But I never really asked.”
“Did you read his novel?”
“I only read about a hundred pages,” I said guiltily. “I never noticed anything. What about you? Did you read his book?”
“Me? I told you. I don’t read anything published after 1920.”
“Should I call him?” I asked, reaching for my phone. Rick was supposed to be boarding a plane back from Toronto.
“Text him,” Larry suggested. “He must have reporters hounding him like crazy.”
I sent Rick a short text: “Saw the story in the NYT. Are you OK?”
He texted back almost immediately. “Don’t believe all the BS. I’m being targeted. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”
“When will you be back?” I texted.
“Not sure. Postponed my flight until further notice. Trying to dodge reporters. Will call soon.”
“See?” I said, showing Larry the messages. “He says he’s being targeted. I bet he just forgot to cite his sources and the press is blowing things out of proportion.”
“You sound like a freshman trying to explain why he accidentally on purpose stole his entire essay off of SparkNotes. This man is not an eighteen-year-old freshman, Anne. He knew better!”
I shut my computer. “I want to hear his side of the story first,” I said. “I owe that to him.”
Over the course of the day, though, the story seemed to metastasize. Larry forwarded me links to related stories on other websites, some with headlines like “The Con Artist” and “Pulped Fiction.” The gossip blogs reported that a film version of Subterranean City, slated to begin shooting in the summer, was now up in the air. #ChasenQuotes started trending on Twitter, along with memes of Rick claiming to have written everything from the Bible to Harry Potter.
I tried not to get sucked into the media frenzy, but the more I read, the less I could explain away Rick’s transgressions. If it was true, Rick was a cheat and a liar. He’d duped countless people—his readers, his fellow writers, and, worst of all, me. If it wasn’t true, then Rick was the victim of some byzantine conspiracy perpetrated by some unknown enemy. In my gut, I knew which scenario was more likely.
When I next reached Rick over the phone, he was still defiant. “It’s a witch hunt,” he said. “I bet no one’s work would stand up to such scrutiny!”
“So you did plagiarize?” I asked.
“Absolutely not! Anne, how could you even think that? I had a numbskull research assistant—this girl could barely string two words together! I’m sure she did a sloppy job on sourcing, and now I’m getting blamed for her incompetence!”
“Why don’t you issue a statement?”
“It’s not that simple,” Rick said. “The publisher’s to blame, if you really get down to it. They placed an absolutely inhumane amount of pressure on me to meet my deadline. I had no choice but to rely on research assistants—they gave me no choice. But of course they want to place the blame squarely on my shoulders, blame me for not supervising my assistants adequately.” Rick snorted angrily. “I’m being pilloried for something that’s not my fault! It’s not such a big deal, really. All the publisher has to do is reissue a new edition with citations. Problem solved.”
I heard Rick chastising someone in the background. “Tell them to piss off!” I heard him grumble.
“Are you still in Toronto?” I asked.
“Ugh, I miraculously made it out, but now I’m stuck on a layover in San Francisco. I think I should lie low here for a few more days until things die down. I’ve got some friends I can crash with.”
“Want me to fly up?”
“No, no—you stay put. Don’t worry—once the next scandal du jour hits the news cycle this will all blow over. Just promise me that if anyone calls you for a comment, you’ll hang up.”
“OK,” I said, feeling uncertain and confused.
“Listen, I’ve got to go—I’ll call you later.”
The next day, though, the Times published a slew of follow-up articles, uncovering problems with Rick’s first novel, and then with nearly every essay or article he’d ever written. The Booker committee announced soon after that they were revoking Rick’s prize. Lindell McKenzie and several other writers announced they were filing lawsuits. Rick’s publisher announced it was pulping all remaining copies of the book and issuing refunds to anyone who felt they had been defrauded. While running errands at the campus bookstore, I noticed that all of Rick’s books had been pulled from the shelves.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked Rick the next time he called. “I’m trying to be supportive, but this is getting out of control.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Rick cried. “You have to believe me.”
“You did it, didn’t you? I’ve looked at all the evidence—it’s damning. What were you thinking?” My voice was taut with anger.
“I wasn’t thinking, truth be told,” Rick said, his voice breaking. “I’m in a very dark place right now.”
“But how could you do this?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I never deliberately stole from people. I’m seeing a psychiatrist now to figure out why I’m so damaged. He says I was betrayed by my early success. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, so this was my way of coping.” He sighed heavily.
“What a mess,” I groaned. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Annie, just knowing you’re by my side—”
“Hold on—I . . .”
“You can’t leave me now! Are you breaking up with me?”
“I just—” I felt myself grasping for words. The truth was, I did want to break up with Rick. I just didn’t know how to do it.
“Haven’t you ever made a terrible mistake and regretted it deeply? I’m not a bad person. I want to change, make things right. Please—you have to have faith in me.”
“But—”
“I honestly don’t trust anyone else. I need you more than ever right now. I—I don’t know what I’d do if you left.” Rick’s voice shook with emotion. “I wouldn’t be able to survive—I’d do something terrible, I know it.”
“Don’t say that!” Rick sounded like he was coming unhinged. What if he did something drastic? What if he hurt someone? What if he hurt himself?
“It’s true. I have nothing to live for. Please—give me a chance. I’ve lost everything—my career, my prizes, everything. Don’t make me lose you, too.”
“OK,” I said, trying to calm him down. “Just promise me you won’t do anything to hurt yourself. I’m here. When do you come back?”
“Early tomorrow morning. I’m planning to head straight to campus from the airport. I’ll meet you at my office first thing—just knock.”
“OK,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”
After I hung up, I frantically called Larry, who whistled incredulously when I gave him the latest update.
“I can’t believe he’s actually going to show his face at school,” Larry said. “I’d want to crawl into a hole and die.”
“At least he’s not bailing on his students,” I pointed out, desperate to find something—anything—redeeming about Rick’s behavior.
“But think of the humiliation!”
“Come on, Larry,” I pleaded. “We shouldn’t all pile on. He screwed up and he’s sorry. Give the guy a break. Please? For me?”
I spent the evening worrying that I’d been too hard on Rick. Had I pushed him over the edge? He’d made a huge mistake, but now he sounded truly sorry and truly despondent. I slept poorly that night and headed to campus early, even though my first class didn’t meet until later in the afternoon. As I walked into the department, I stopped in surprise. Pam was standing in front of Rick’s office, pinning a notice to the door. Some empty file boxes were on the floor next to her. I quietly walked up and read the notice over her shoulder.
NOTICE: PROFESSOR CHASEN IS ON MEDICAL LEAVE. HIS WORKSHOP HAS BEEN CANCELED. PLEASE REFER ANY QUESTIONS TO DR. CULPEPPER, CHAIR.
“What’s going on?” I asked, startling Pam.
“Oh!” she cried, fishing a thumbtack from her mouth. “Anne! You’re here early!” Her eyes lit up. “I’ve been dying to talk to you. I thought you of all people would know what was going on.”
When I looked at her blankly, she gasped. “Or wait—did you guys break up?”
“Is Rick not coming back?” I asked.
“All I’ve been told is to put up this sign and to pack up his books.” Pam looked at me with pity. “So you don’t know anything either? He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“He’s in San Francisco,” I said. “He’s supposed to be back soon.”
“Really? Not according to Dr. Culpepper, he isn’t,” Pam said knowingly. She looked around quickly and then lowered her voice. “So do you think it’s all true?”
“What’s true?”
“The plagiarism? The stealing other people’s work? I read somewhere that he paid a ghostwriter to write all his books!”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“Poor baby,” Pam said, clucking maternally. “So you’re as much in the dark as the rest of us, aren’t you? No wonder you look so terrible. This must have completely ruined your spring break.”
“Actually, not really, Pam,” I said, my voice icy. “My break sucked, but not because of Rick. It sucked because my dad died.” I walked away before Pam could respond.
Once I was safely in my office, I tried to call Rick’s phone, but his voicemail box was full.
“where are you??” I texted. “call me!”
I waited but there was no response.
“are you coming back?” I wrote.
Still no response.
“PLEASE CALL ME ASAP,” I finally texted.
I called Larry, feeling panic building in my chest. In my mind, I saw Rick climbing over the railing at Golden Gate Bridge, or stepping into rush hour traffic, or—God forbid—loading a gun.
“Rick’s vanished,” I said. “He’s not answering his phone. His class has been canceled. He’s apparently on ‘medical leave.’ Do you think—do you think he might have hurt himself?”
“Wait—you don’t think he was suicidal, do you?” Larry asked.
“He was saying some crazy things on the phone to me yesterday—”
“Like what?”
“Like how he has nothing to live for anymore—”
“You’re kidding.”
“I made him promise not to do anything, and he seemed to calm down by the time I hung up. But maybe—oh God, do you think?”
“Did you talk to Steve? He should know something, right?”
“He’s not in his office.”
“What about Pam? She seems to know everything.”
“She was trying to pump me for information!”
“OK, stay calm. We don’t know anything yet. Just don’t panic.”
“Should I call the police?”
“No! Don’t do anything yet. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
On a whim, I checked online to see if any new stories about Rick had been posted since the previous day. On the Times website, I noticed an update on the sidebar and clicked. The Associated Press had a new report, just two sentences in total:
Discredited novelist Richard Forbes Chasen has checked into a rehabilitation center for undisclosed personal reasons. His representative has no further comment at this time.
*
EMILY YOUNG HADN’T BEEN by my office much that spring, busy training for the upcoming NCAA championships. I’d kept up with her mostly through the school newspaper, reading up on her latest games and the team’s steady rise in the rankings. Her next tournament was scheduled to be in Oregon, so I was surprised when I saw her waiting outside my office, dressed not in her tennis gear but in a brown sweater and jeans, her hair hanging loose instead of in its usual ponytail. I realized I’d almost never seen her wearing street clothes.
“Do you have a minute?” she asked.
“Of course!” I said, motioning her to come in.
“I have some news about grad school,” she said. “I found out I got into Berkeley and Columbia with full funding.”
“That’s fantastic news!” I said. “You must be thrilled!”
But Emily didn’t look thrilled. In fact, she looked like she was about to cry.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Tell me.”
“It’s about a guy,” she said.
Oh no, I thought. All this time, I’d assumed Emily was still single. I never saw her on campus with anyone, and she never volunteered any information. She must have met someone in the last few months and was having relationship panic now that graduation was fast approaching.
“Let me guess—is it about whether or not to break up with your boyfriend before grad school?”
“Yes!” Emily said. “How did you know?”
“I was your age once,” I said, smiling. “Tell me about him.”
“Well, um, you actually know him.”
“I do?” I ran through my male students in my head, trying to figure out who could possibly be dating Emily.
“Yes.” She hesitated, biting her lip, her hands nervously clenched in her lap. “I haven’t told anyone because it’s sort of a secret.” Lowering her voice, she whispered, “It’s Rick Chasen.”
I felt myself go numb. Emily must have seen the shock on my face because she reddened and started stammering, “I know he’s my professor and all, but I’m twenty-one, and he’s not that much older than me, really.”
“But he’s your professor,” I said, my voice hollow.
“He’s not really my professor anymore. I dropped his class after we started dating.”
I didn’t say anything at first, and Emily looked like she might burst into tears again.
“You’re upset,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no—I’m just surprised. Go on.”
“He’s the most amazing professor I’ve ever had,” she said tearfully. “He really cared about what I had to say. It’s so hard to find college guys like that. They’re all so immature and superficial. But Rick listened to me. He told me I was the best writer in the class and that I shouldn’t let my talent go to waste. Did you know he was nearly killed by a roadside bomb in Iraq? And that he lost his best friend in the attack? I nearly cried when he told me. He’s way stronger and braver than I could ever be. I just—I have so much respect for him. He stands up for what he believes is right, even if his life’s at risk!”
I handed Emily a tissue and she blew her nose. “How did you two start . . . dating?” I asked.
Emily blushed. “We started hanging out a lot in his office so he could help me revise my stories. He would ask me to close the door so we could talk without being bothered, and we just got to chatting about other stuff. He mentioned that he’d been dating someone but that she made him feel really inadequate. He called her a frigid bitch. I let him vent to me, and one day, he said, ‘Em, I have something to confess. I really want to kiss you. If you weren’t my student . . .’ I—I told him I didn’t have to be his student anymore, and . . . well . . . it sort of went on from there. He told me I was beautiful. No one’s ever said that to me before.”
I cleared my throat. “And why are you telling me now?” I asked.
“I don’t know who else to talk to,” she cried. “I was with him in San Francisco last week when this whole scandal broke. He was so upset. He said he was being set up and that no one believed him. I told him I believed him. I know what it’s like to be under a lot of pressure to succeed. Before I left, he told me I was the only person he could really trust and that we were soul mates. I love him, Professor Corey. He’s my first real boyfriend. I swear he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
She choked back a sob. “He checked into rehab, and now his phone doesn’t work and I have no way to get in touch with him. But I need to talk to him! He loves me—I know he does. I’ll go wherever he wants me to go, as long as we’re together.” She looked at me beseechingly. “I know you’re friends with him. Do you have his contact information? Can you pass a message along to him?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know how to reach him,” I said. “He didn’t give me any information, either.”
“Has he been fired?” she squeaked. “They say his class has been canceled. Is he ever coming back?”
“The administration won’t tell us. And we’re under strict orders not to talk to the press.” Steve had sent out an e-mail just that morning asking us to stay mum and refer any snooping reporters to him directly.
Emily looked devastated. “Please don’t tell anyone about this,” she begged. “I don’t want to get him in any more trouble. I’d kill myself if the administration found out.”
I looked at Emily, weighing what I should do next. Should I say anything to her? Or should I keep my mouth shut? She looked at me pleadingly, and I felt a twinge of responsibility and guilt.
“Emily,” I said. “I need to tell you something. Rick is not who you think he is. He’s not . . . dependable.”
Emily looked at me quizzically.
“I don’t know what he’s told you,” I continued. “But you can’t trust everything he says. He’s— How do I say this? He’s an opportunist.” I winced to myself, realizing I was saying the exact same thing to Emily that Adam had said to me six months earlier.
“What do you mean?” Emily asked. “He’s always been super upfront with me.”
“I know more about him than you do. You might as well know—we weren’t just friends. We were dating each other.”
A look of horror crossed Emily’s face, then disgust.
“You’re the girlfriend?” she asked.
“I guess you could say that,” I said.
I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Instead of recognizing Rick as the two-timing prick that he was, Emily turned on me.
“So you’re the one that made him so miserable,” she said quietly. “You’re the one who was pushing him away.”
“I didn’t push him away, Emily. He’s been feeding you lies. He’s been using you, don’t you see? He was using you the way he used me.”
“No,” Emily said, shaking her head. “I don’t believe it. He’d never do that. He knew how much I respected you, so he was trying to protect me.”
“Protect you from what?” I asked.
“From this,” Emily said, standing up. “From retaliation. I shouldn’t have said anything. He knew you’d try to get back at me if you found out.”
“Emily!” I said. “Stop! Don’t do this. I only said something because I care about you. I don’t want you to get hurt!” I tried to keep her from leaving, but she recoiled from me, grabbing her bags and storming to the door.
“You know,” she said. “I used to look up to you so much. You were my role model. What was I thinking? I don’t want to be like you at all.”
After she left, I sank to the floor. She’d responded just the same way I’d responded when Adam tried to warn me about Rick—with rage and disbelief. I wanted to kill Rick. He’d seduced me and he’d seduced Emily, and he’d told us both the same lies. How stupid could I be? Emily had an excuse. She was twenty-one and hopelessly naive. But what was my excuse? I was a grown-up, yet he’d known exactly the right things to say to me, told me exactly what I wanted to hear.
You’re a fucking idiot, Anne, I told myself.
But the worst part wasn’t that Rick had lied to me or led me on. It wasn’t that he’d stolen other people’s work and passed it off as his own. It wasn’t even that he’d preyed on an innocent undergrad girl. It was that I was partly responsible for all this. Emily had been my favorite student, the younger, better, more hopeful version of myself. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I’d delivered her right up to Rick’s doorstep. And I would never forgive myself for that.