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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Louis Umfreville Wilkinson
[On the letterhead of The International] The International, 1123 Broadway, New York City.
[At top of letter in Crowley’s handwriting] I’ll review Chaste Man in Sept number [of The International].
Dr. Louis U. Wilkinson, 10 Davis Place, Rockaway Beach, L.I. July 19, 1917.
Cher Maître,
I am overwhelmed with your letter of the 17th. I have been crying ever since. I had to go to Coney Island to celebrate. It is really awfully nice, and I only hope that other people will take your view.
As for that of your flame-flower, I am even more enchanted. I do really value that opinion more than anything, if only because it is not so much an opinion as an expression of real feeling. After all, we are great fools to analyse the books we read. All art operates by direct impression. Either you get it over, or you don’t. If you start to criticise Eva Tanguay, you leave nothing at all.
It is curious that what you say about Lisa is exactly what Kennedy [Leon Engers Kennedy] said. I could not in the least understand it because the character is taken from life with considerable exactitude. Talking it over with him, he got it down to the point of saying that his objection was that such a silly fool would not be likely to have such exalted visions. As a matter of fact, the visions were rather tacked on, but just as any looking glass will reflect any image without caring in the least what that image is, Hyperion or a satyr, and just as those images leave no impression at all upon the glass, so it is with women.
However, if you see any way to coordinate her a little, I wish you would suggest it. Personally, I don’t. Of course, I agree about leaving Lisa and the child, but this “butterfly net” [Moonchild] is really only the overture to the “wonder-child” novel which I have not yet thought out in the least. You cannot expect me to give you two novels for $1.35. As a matter of fact, novel No. 2 is a considerable bother to me because the first happens to be dated. Either I must lay the scene in some inaccessible vastness of the Himalayas or I must trust my frail bark to the stormy and uncharted seas of prophecy.
I have just got your "Black Windmill" but have not had time to read it as we are already twenty-four hours late with the August number [of The International].
I do not know what the world would do to Oscar Wilde if he returned to it not having died. I know what I would not do. I know also what in any circumstances I am going to do and that is to expose the mawkish sliminess of the "Ballad of Reading Gaol".
I think of signing my reviews “Kopromastix”. One ought to get a sort of café parfait. As soon as I can afford to buy some scented paper, rose-coloured, I shall say directly what I think about those beautiful remarks in pencil.
[Added to typewritten letter in A.C.’s handwriting] July 20. I am using Lyric Shambles, if there’s room. Black Windmill I think Yes: t’other doubtful. I can’t see quite what happened, or rather why. Even in B[lack] W[indmill] I don’t see why the poison is given. Much more fun to let him go ahead, and miss fire.
Do come up and see me. It’s lovely here and I want you to meet Myriam Deroxe.
Amen.
A.C.
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