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Well.
A few years ago I was in Genoa.
Having taken some Garibaldi biscuits to the Tourist Information Centre there, walking down the lane, a group of young communist students came gaily along, yelling and handing out leaflets.
I stopped to speak with one, no more than 20, who had very good English. We spoke briefly about Gramsci and he asked if I was English. I told him I was Scottish. Ah, he said, Alexander Trocchi. I asked if he knew about Trocchi. Of course he did. His parents knew him very well.
The artist’s life, eh? I’ve read a bit about the anarchist scene, and don’t remember child-endangering heroin use or prostituting your wife to buy off arresting officers featuring.
The corruption in 1950s Paris (still reeling from terror by armed gangs of ex-GIs apparently) is worth noting. The CIA covertly ran large sections of the arts world there under the Congress for Culture Freedom, and I gather the Paris Review (mentioned) was founded as cover by a CIA officer and arts gatekeeper. Filth didn’t offend capitalist sensibilities, but publishing anything smacking of communism might have faced extra challenges.
One might consider how the West pushed the Cold War cult of the artist for propaganda purposes, creating an illusory form of freedom poisoned by clandestine patronage and invisible censorship. Much like Trocchi here seems to have poisoned his friends and acquaintances. While not producing art, apparently, unless you could a little light fraud. Well, hopefully this will be an antidote to the nefarious Cult of the Artist for some.
can’t recall which novel but is there not an infamous custard scene in one of them, it does make ye wonder about the motives or character ov sum ov these punters involvd in the publication ‘process’