He stands out like a rock in a river: clear, stark and unmoving, as the waters rush around him and vanish.

“His defence of bankers’ greed is Bullingdon morality, pure and simple.”

In death it has become a testament to the folly of man, more deserving of derision than the Dodo.

Endearingly muddled as a companion, he can rise in his plays to heights of piercing illumination that make one think of Rimbaud.

Heathcote, always ahead of his time, passing away too soon for him and us, was even early for his own funeral.

Heathcote Williams may be dead, but we’ve not heard the last from him yet, not by a long chalk.

Apply to the 120 club. As soon as you join, just say: “I’m not going to die”, adding, “So far, so good”.

Poetry had to unsettle, subvert, with luck destroy, whatever stopped human beings thinking freely and acting justly.

There are few equivalents who have breadth of vision, righteous anger, wit and passion for the poor and downtrodden.

Heathcote Williams, poet, playwright, essayist, lyricist, actor, artist, magician, political activist and much else besides, died 1 July 2017.

Hollywood actor Al Pacino funded and starred in a film of Heathcote Williams’ play The Local Stigmatic.

“I thought I’d try my hand at harpooning. Fortunately, two suitable targets surfaced.”

He’ll be remembered as one of our great writers of visionary dissent in the tradition of Blake and Shelley.

It is precisely Heathcote Williams’ purity of heart that causes him to investigate the corrosion in the hearts of others,

Forensic and passionate, eloquent and polemical, Heathcote Williams’s meticulous prose roars with righteous anger – Jeremy Hardy

Heathcote Williams’ new book shows how a nation steeped in violence and greed reached its apotheosis in President Donald Trump.

When Tony Blair posed for a photo opportunity with Harry Patch, Britain’s longest surviving WW1 soldier, he got more than he bargained for.