Dandy in the Underworld

Piqued and alerted to learn of the death of Soho peacock and brothel creeper Sebastian Horsley. His death makes me thoughtful. Sad? A bit. It is sad when someone dies at 47. But, ok, what was he?
An original in a fairly narrow context - yes. His life a living piece of art - yeees. Watch his crucifixion film on YouTube.
Is his death a loss for mass humanity? No. Did he truly flout Western society and its conventions? No.
Did he rage against the dying of the light or succumb slowly, accidentally, to cold-pale mother heroin like any other junkie lost before he needs to be?
Notoriety now, yes. But in a decade?
shucks...what did he have under that top hat?
I've had his memoir Dandy in the Underworld for a few years now, gathering dust on its red dust jacket, and, curiously just a few days ago reminded myself to read it soon.
Practically every sentence would give a shrink a field day. Take this one - picked at random - " I can stop writing this and within two minutes I can be chained, in the arms of a whore."
or - "It's better to be quotable than honest."
In that toddler defiance there is a questing sensibility
There is a person hard-wired to extremes with a respect for language.

In one of his final interviews last month, he said: 'It's just a joke, life - it's a whole joke.

'And given that life is absurd, given that it's pointless, given that it's meaningless; to mirror it with an absurdist dance is in many ways taking up a real position. Dandyism is a ghost dance in the face of defeat.'

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