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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Gwendolen Otter
Collegium as Spiritum Sanctum Cefalů Sicily.
19-4-21.
My dear Sister Gwendolen,
Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
You made me very happy by your letter, though as mad as hell that you didn't come to Paris. I meant to come to England, too, at the beginning of April, but my bronchitis got me, even in Paris, and I had to hurry down here—it's not good enough to spend one's nights coughing one's lungs out.
Yes: I met Pastor, and disconcerted him at once with
"Formosum Pastor Corydon ardebat Alexin"
as he had no idea that Vergil had babbled his secret in my ear!
"Super-pet" you do certainly find wonderful labels for jam-pots. I wonder how you describe me, in your calmer moments!
The "new witness" (is it?) has to admit, in reviewing Francis Thompson that there is one other, since Swinburne, who has achieved perfect mastery of form. But he 'will do no more than mention that "dark angel" etc' Well, I'd rather be a dark angel than, like Shelly, a 'beautiful and intellectual angel'; I'm glad I get results.
No. I'm not crazy about Frankie McThomp. He has many fine lines, and a few good ideas; but he lacks virility. He said nothing, after all. The great men always stand for something very definite, even when they don't mention it in so many words. Their work, as a whole, is a self-portrait. F.T.'s portrait is very blurred, but one sees a creature who fled from reality all the time. His religion and his opium are equally attempts to escape from the facts of life. So was his homosexuality, born of the fear of The Woman.
I never got your Sassoon, but many thanks for the kind thought. I wish I had a book to send you, but I can find no publisher, even for my detective [Simon Iff] stories, and I am hopelessly broke. Leila Waddell stole my last Ł1000, and vanished into the Ewigkeit. Luckily, life in Cefalů costs practically nothing; I do hope you will come here this summer—it's a gorgeous place. We are 8 all told at present. I should love to have you here; you are one of not more than half a dozen people in my life for whom I really care, deep down, by essential sympathy. It has simply been rotten bad luck, and my stupidity, that our friendship stopped where it has. And now I can't live in England, except in summer; and in summer I prefer to live here, in pyjamas all the time, except for the four or five hours daily when I wallow in the sea.
I am very sad sometimes; I have done so much work, and there seems no chance of ever getting it published. I have been driven to writing scenarios for the movies—one of my folk here [Jane Wolfe] is a 'star', and revises my efforts so as to suit the Great American Public. If I can make a hit, I shall be rich, and start a printing press of my own, here. I think, too, that my pictures may be a success; they are really getting pretty good. But think of the jest of it, that I, after all I have done, should be driven out of literature altogether!
Love is the law, love under will.
Ever yours, with devoted affection,
The Beast 666.
I do miss you so! A.C.
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