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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Frank Harris
[undated: circa late February 1924]
On Wednesday I got over my operation but was very exhausted and semi-delirious. Have suddenly picked up to-day but am dreadfully sleepy—just able to dictate this note and no more. But I have to say how sorry I am that Nelly has the grippe. . . . At the very same moment I hear that my own pal to whom I had just written a really hopeful appeal about buying the paper has been ordered to bed, same old story. So God knows when I'll get an answer. But I'll be up and about by Monday at latest unless things take a sudden turn and then I'll be able to run around a bit and make a final effort to push something through.
The luck seems to be bloody rotten for both of us. . . . but one never knows when it is going to turn without warning.
Please pay adoration and sympathy to the fair sufferer, which I believe is the correct term and that she may be herself again, nay, that she has already thrown it off.
P.S. Great news from London. Wicherley's comely wife unexpectedly put on by the Phoenix. All London and his wife there in full force roaring with laughter any time anyone says cunt and once outside looking shocked when they overhear a whisper sounding anything like F. Harris. I am getting tolerant in my old age. I can stand Puritans and I can stand roysterers; but I fear I'll have to live a few years before I cease to vomit at English hypocrisy.
P.P.S. Planted Ruskin on James of N.Y.T. The omniscient ones describe him as a hoggish outlandish barbarian with the face and gestures of a kangaroo and as much idea of literature as George Moore has of Jesus. But he seemed t see the idea and promised to cable New York so I should have news for you by Monday at latest with any luck.
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