I was introduced to Broby as a mythical figure, when I read about the controversy surrounding his first and only book of poems, BLOD. Later I found out about his archive and got in contact with the head of the library’s manuscript department, Bruno Svindborg. That was 2013, shortly after the archive opened to the public, and I was the first person to request a viewing. Although they had managed to collate and file the printed matter, the plates and thousands of slides were still to be organised. The mere thought of the remaining material seemed to exhaust Bruno, who was more than a little sceptical about my interest in the largely forgotten writer’s archive. He asked me where I was from, and what interest I could have in someone like Broby. He said that if my interest was in Karen Blixen or Søren Kierkegaard he could understand, but Broby? Wasn’t he just that self-proclaimed “art educator” who once published a few perversely vulgar poems? Several visits later Bruno causally revealed to me that he himself had attended Broby’s summer school in the 1970s, the disclosure and memory of which lit his face with a brief and mild expression.