|
Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Norman Mudd
25-3-24 e.v.
C∴F∴
93
I am keeping your 'bombshell' unopened for the present in case of certain possibilities.
Your 'warning' letter caused a
rather serious relapse. I must admit to being the prey of
anxiety; all round, and especially as to the threatened
shortage of
It seems that feeding up on it gives strength, but it starts asthma, bronchitis, etc until I have accumulated a surplus sufficient to calm the condition from above, just as physical prostration calms it from below.
The above may be taken as definite; and I doubt whether at present, as in these actual conditions, I have enough reserves of strength to pull through the crisis of complete abstinence, as I could do almost without noting it if I were being properly tended in a decent country place.
This also is important. Your 'ghoulish' letter affected me so seriously that I almost decided to ask you to communicate only through Estai [Jane Wolfe], relying on her judgment to write nothing that would knock me down again. But I think it may be settled this way—provided that you understand how critically ill I am, as regards resistance to bad news or gloomy forebodings. I have had real doubts as to how far my reaction is to be trusted to stand sad trials.
And this is the formula. Let me know nothing at all about the past. Treat me as the new-born babe I am—to be nourished and prepared to be the Crowned and Conquering Child. Write therefore nothing at all except plans and hopes for the future. I understand my ordeals to this point, that my rebirth must be complete, with no taint of inherited syphilis from A.C.!
I hope strongly that you will be able to arrange for my leaving here before next Monday. The monotony, solitude, absence of nursing, etc, all working steady and deadly mischief. My spirit is infinitely purer and stronger than it has been in my life; but my flesh is shockingly weak. E.g. I am trying to sell the serial rights of the Hag [The Confessions of Aleister Crowley] to the Chicago Tribune. Their man saw me yesterday for some two hours, and I gave him a synopsis '75-'04 (Cairo working) Fine, but it prostrated me: I have had to stay in bed all day. I am far too weak to help myself, save in such ways as above, and writing at odd times. (am preparing another essay, Personal, on Shakespeare's ideas about disguise. Have collected materials, but have not yet enough strength to write it out.)
It is therefore utterly useless to load my mind with care about others. This is just heartless: the best way I can help is to give e the chance to pull my health up; and the absolutely essential conditions are as above (1). No thoughts of the past, or personal affairs at all: only constructive work for the future.
Later. After my long preaching of the Law to an old friend, one Hope Johnstone, very advanced and ready to receive the Light: Two letters have come in from you; but I would not open them.
It would be stupid to risk being knocked out for no purpose—for there is nothing I can do.
Let me first receive a P[ost]
C[ard] saying that you will adhere to
the principles of this letter. Or, better still, nothing
until you can send a personal representative with news of
rescue, and the means of immediate release from this
"mattress-grave" (should you wish to send cash, do so via
Bernard Harrison). If
I am sorry to have to take so abject a view of the phrase "masterly inactivity"; but your 'ghoul' letter really caused so serious a relapse that I see no alternative at present.
Love is the law, love under will.
Yours fraternally
666.
|
[Heroin], which might lead to a worse
physical collapse than you saw while you were here.