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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Gerald Kelly
Madras.
6/12/01 [6 December 1901]
My dear Gerald, little sheep.
I command thee by holy obedience that thou hewray me not no astoniment neither quaking of limbs whereat of my somewhatness.
The herewithness may indeed astound an unprepared one. What are you or I any one to say or think of "Ascension Day and Pentecost"?
As to Argo [The Argonauts] Act V I had meant to lift it gradually to a very high note of tragedy: but it wouldn't quite. The boiled king is too impossible, as I am (A.D. 1901) sane enough to see. But Macheess is good, though I doubt whether you will like the still small voice bringing about the tragedy quietly subtly without a big Crowley of emotion and cursing. Perhaps you may be charmed—I never know when I please you. Do you know, I have really a serious wish to please you in poetry, that more than anything like fame or other rot? I look forward immensely to our next purple veil of nightfall, and a discussion on fourth-dimensional political economy at the Alsatians!
I am off to Calcutta tomorrow: hope to find a mail from you.
Book II [of Orpheus] is finished off with an axe (you may think) "Medea" I have not touched I can shovel her in somewhere if necessary. "Hercules and Theseus" for B[oo]k III [of Orpheus] I definitely abandon.
But what of Book III itself, that cataract of sextuplicity in rhyme, of spasm in rhythm ("spasm in rhythm" is a good line—and devil a rhyme to it) and Lord knows what in every other quality. The idea is to anomatoeopize the rush and airiness of his flight. You know my idea that all poetry should suggest it's subject by its sound, as music does. Perhaps Wagner's leit-motif is even more allowable in poetry. Rosetti utterly misunderstood the refrain and destroyed its use. See Browning "sucked along in the flying wake of the luminous water-snake" in Xmas Eve Pippa's appearances (the use of lyric rather) in that play: the word "Porphyria" in "P's Lover" thrice used. And look how Aeschylus will hark on megas, melas, telos, brontos, thanatos and such words using them in this very leit-motif way—that very repetition which the ordinary fool tells you to avoid. Many other examples will occur to you. The words "sea", sun, wind, earth etc in "By the North Sea"—supreme!. Swinburne, indeed, you may say, in Dolores, uses this same evil "refrain". But he writes each verse up to it as a climax. "Our Lady of Pain" never occurs till it is quite essential and no other words would fall so well. Another trick of his (one I have picked up—he only uses it once so far as I know) is in opening chorus of Atalanta rhyming cling-to-her, spring-to-her, wing-to-her, spring-wing-cling and two indifferent rhymes. See my "Light of the Sea" now in Argo IV for an extreme of this—almost touching the ballade complexity. This latter is nearly always had (chant royal etc). Possibly one good natural song could be so made but not more. They certainly cannot be turned out: bar genius touching madness. "Rod-codfish-body-kisses"!
I thought six months ago I should never be a reader any more: but now find myself devouring with avidity (Q[uer]y from sanskrit Avidya, ignorance?) all sorts of good literature. What will you think of Amica Lunae and its congeners? You are quite right my art had been totally changed. I got a grand idea some time back—to write up the lust of the nigger for the Texas girl and his subsequently aching. But I perceive this is nearly or quite impossible.
(I break off to pack)
Let me hear from you constantly: especially of your work, of which no word for months. I trust you are under proper conditions at last.
Note that A.D. and P. [Ascension Day and Pentecost] requires much work. You can trace in the M.S. how much building up has done already. I began as a deliberate riposte to Browning—and found new points of view obtruding every moment. I hope to get every aspect in: not of course explicit but suggested. By the way, the fishing story is literally true and my Annunciation is verbatim (bar tricks of rhythm and rhyme). But it's bold—taking Browning's method, style, humour, everything. At least the Swinburne note is absent! (Unless it's the hetalogia A.C.S. Misery!)
I shall write no more. I hope to have a letter to answer when I get to Calcutta.
So long.
Ever yours,
Aleister Crowley.
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