As a kid, Punk was everything to me. It was the anti-authoritarian lens through which I viewed everything. Even as I grew out of the music, the ideology still informed everything I did. As I got older and read more theory I started to view punk as infantile and puerile. A childish attempt at transgression. A baby spitting its dummy out.
A couple of years ago, a girl I was seeing gave me a copy of this book, and it rekindled my love for punk.
A sourfaced evisceration of the British state and the then-burgeoning tide of globalisation, this book is an Ode to Wally Hope, a man entrenched in the hippy moment who died as a result of his imprisonment in a mental institution. Through his activism and organising of free parties, Wally was much beloved and his death made of him a martyr for anarcho-punks everywhere. This book doesn't pull its punches and while some of what Rimbaud preaches seems like common knowledge today in the early eighties it would have been revolutionary. I can't recommend this, or the album it was published to accompany (Crass' Christ - the Album) enough.
It's short, if not so sweet, and my copy lives in my back pocket at all times.