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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Montgomery Evans
The Dome,
Sept. 13 / 24
Dear M.E. 2nd,
93.
You imagine right about my difficulties; you hope in vain about a turn for the better. I had Mudd [Norman Mudd] and Murray [Adam Murray] repatriated, so there is no one sleeping on our floor at present. We expect to sleep on some one else's floor in a few days, if not a plank bed.
I have found it hard to take your illness seriously. You seemed to me the embodiment of youthful health and energy. I should have said you had as poisoned a constitution as any man alive and had never known a day's sickness. Anyway, I am glad you are pulling round.
Books! Good God!! Besides the Sacred Books which I know by heart—there is nothing here but the 4th Series of Contemporary Portraits and Wm. Bird's book on Wine, which is merely tantalizing. Do send me anything you can spare. I know one good tale by Ambrose Bierce—about hanging a confederate spy. But compare my "Testament of Magdalen Blair".
The Eq[uino]x is $100 per set but we have no set available. We have nothing available "except my soul, on which the usurers refused to lend."
I am glad to hear of your German backer being interested. It has been prophesied that I should never come to my own except by way of Germany. Really, the Germans are the only intelligent people. If it weren't all cluttered up with their damned intellectualism.
What you have got to do is to finance The Confessions before you leave Europe. If the Prospectus is properly handled subscriptions should be tumbling in. We should be able to borrow £1000 on the Prospect which would keep us all going strong for a long while and enable us to put the business over big. Clarke wants 10 000 francs before starting to print, roughly 1/3 of the cost of Volume I. This includes binding and illustrations. The first 116 pp of the MS have reached me. It's not too bad.
I had to telegraph to Simon Iff to elucidate your allusion to Germinal. He says it must be a periodical edited by Sylvia. I am one of the swains that command her. She seems to have courage and frankness and intelligence. You will probably hear of our being married shortly. 8 goats, 16 cats, 32 pouter-pigeons and 64 okapis will be sacrificed on the occasion, each of them duly "cum quo". We expect you to give us a wedding present consisting of 14 unpaid bills at local restaurants.
The 3rd, Vol of Book 4 [Magick in Theory and Practice] expanded itself into a complete treatise on Magick—an immense volume. Being written on strictly scientific principles, it is supposed by occultists to be the ravings of a drug fiend. (not published but ready to be when the rich man comes along—or any publisher with a grain of intelligence as big as a mustard seed.
Frank Harris writes me in mysterious terms about Vol. w. It was supposed to appear this month buy he doesn't say that it has even gone to press (He is back in Nice, c/o Amer. Ex. Co.)
Bernard Shaw replied to our appeal that knowing nothing of the matter he could not be my advocate. I have replied that no such proposition was even made. He was asked to fight for the decency of public controversy. I wish you would write to him yourself, putting the situation from your own point of view. You might possibly rouse him by referring to the murder of so many English poets in the past.
I broke down physically two days ago. My legs assumed independent control of the situation. I had a very amusing time watching them try to kick the bedstead to pieces. I explained patiently that no possible object could be gained by this system of conduct but they completely ignored my representations, being just as brainless as executives always are. I have despatched Corporal Gardenal[1] to quiet them and his interference has been very successful. But I am down and out from physical weakness and the hopelessness of starting anything worth starting. I am obsessed with impatience for some really important catastrophe to happen. This system of reprieves is so senseless. Kill me or let me out!
This isn't exactly loss of courage. The thought of giving in or even wishing I could give in simply does not occur. It's just the old feeling of squatting in the trenches waiting for the Zero hour.
There is excellent news to-day. Some lunatic directly inspired by the High Gods, sent all my private papers and books to England! The Customs House had had continuous spasms of Priapism ever since, only recovering sufficiently to summon Sir Archibald Bodkin and Scotland Yard to the feast. This simplifies my task immensely. There can be no question of keeping back any spark of my doctrine as unsuited to the exalted Grade of the musty-smelling muck-mongers of the Civil Service. The whole truth will come out and fumigate completely the plague-pit of Anglo-Saxondom.
What I want to see is that this is the chance of your life. With you in Paris to help us with your energy, connexions and fascination, you can become an international character at a stroke. As long as you are compromising by doing dirty work for dirty people you are not being true to yourself and your stomach will remain deranged.
Rise! Take up thy bed and walk! Come with me and I will make you a hunter of men!
Fraternally yours;
Aleister Crowley
1—[Gardenal contains phenobarbital, a barbiturate.]
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