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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Gerald Kelly
[Undated: circa 1904?]
My dear G.
When Saul gets among the prophets to the extent of a revered and noble lady writing: "Gerald is gone back to Paris. He was vaccinated as there was bad chicken-pox about where he lives—which might have been the other pox—who knows?" (I quote my ma-in-law verbatim) it is evident that the war on heaven should be over and that silence for more than half a year is not too much to listen to strains so ravishing.
En effet, my dear boy—have I caught the divine effluvium?—especially as I have to thank you for the great and even intelligent care you have taken of my children (teste Cameron)—news of the (inglorious fourth from your pen would be esteemed. As for your canvas, I hear great things, but from fools, so can't judge. But I am sure the astral mud must be gone by now; what you said about the mouth was so clear to the point that all must be well.
Through the love of God our Saviour All will be well Free and changeless in his favour All, all will be well Cheerful if in God confiding, Peaceful if in Christ abiding Holy through the Spirit's abiding Holy through the Spirit's guiding All must be well . . .
But as for me, why, there's a hell of a lot doing. "Oracles" a hotch-potch of dejecta membra is uniform with the M's T. It contains "The Balloon" "In the Great Pyramid of Giza" "Anima Lunae" "Hymn to Apollo" and other beastlinesses too foul to cumber up my M.S. case any more. "Why Jesus Wept" uniform with Sword [The Sword of Song]. 'Tis good: Wouldst thou see proofs? There is another; but there grim silence reigns. There is also "The Bromo Book"—has O.E. [Oscar Eckenstein] sent you "Micturating Mary"?
Bar an essay on "Time" a dialogue between a learned Indian and a British sceptic, this leaves clear the wad for the accursèd Orply. We'll be at death-grips in a day or two; and this time someone shall succumb.
Do you still see gold tarnished and the Gray above Gavine? How, in short are the typhoid stools generally? And "Mrs Coles"? I suppose a subtle blind, for he runs at the nose too much for almost anyone. Or is a Norfolk Jacket the Parisian for the Bruxellois regulation tight trousers? Has anyone conceived any cynical ideas lately? Or is invention dead? But I charge and toss me; it's a like. Like concealed crevasses—just to make shikari's expensive.
Excuse my concealing or appearing to conceal my address. It is only that letters miscarry and that without £40 fortune for the job. The moral of which is don't do it again! Excuse me still more if I wander; but I'm not a Jew at it, but—ah! if I told you that I should tell you more than (perhaps) I know myself For—is there an "I"? This is no doubt the central problem of all philosophy and how to attack it puzzles me. Yet I hope. I suppose I may add that R. [Rose Kelly] sends anything there is handy.
(there's little handy here but one's .44 and the canoemen—but Lord!, you're welcome to them!)
Need I say more?
Yours ever as ever.
Aleister Crowley
Did you see a letter about you in the N.Y. Herald in Jan or Feb? If Maugham asks you, go and swear re that bugger Bless and my contract. A.C.
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