Aleister Crowley is one of the
most extraordinary Britishers—a poet, explorer, mountain
climber, an adept in esoteric philosophy—in short a person
of so many sides and interests that it is no wonder a legend
has been built up around his name in his own lifetime.
He has published more volumes of
poetry than he has lived years, and has climbed more
mountains than he has lived months. The
Equinox,
his work on occultism, is only a part of the gigantic
literary structure which he has built up in the past five
years.
In 1900 he explored Mexico without
guides. Two years later he spent many months in China. In
1906 he crossed China on foot. The success of his drama,
The Rites of Eleusis in London, 1910, did not tempt him
to settle there for long, as he was next heard of in the
heart of the Sahara.
As a naked yogi, he has sat for
days under the Indian sun, begging his rice.
He has hitherto lived in Paris
when not on his travels. One of his friends is
Augustus John, the painter, who has done some wonderful
sketches of him.