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L'ÉCHO DE PARIS Paris, France 16 March 1903 (page 1)
LETTRES À VALMONT.
Our dear Paris remains always, you see, Valmont, despite her caprices for negro dances, the eternal home of Beauty. In the end, it is to her all these errant children come, as an indulgent mother to the worst excesses of art. Sometimes it is the "enfants terribles" that she adopts, terrible and charming, like Miss Barney who simultaneously adores both the gods of Greece and the unknown god of Anarchy, or Miss Hannah Lynch, who strongly disconcerted Monsieur Bergeret, last month, when speaking of his books with somewhat Irish license.
It is to Paris that the seekers of the infinite find their refuge. Is this not why Aleister Crowley comes to us, this English poet of Celtic blood, who has sung the glory of Rodin [Auguste Rodin] having descended from an audacious 7,000 meter ascent on K2 of the Himalayas? Aleister Crowley seems a fair brother to Maurice Maeterlinck, pale, thin and firm as an arrow-shaft; his poems of a sensual metaphysic which exalt themselves to the peaks of the Earth and of Art; and, after having thought amongst us about some new drama, he departs again for India, to conquer Gaurisankar.
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