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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Dorothy Olsen
Gabes [Tunisia]
le Wednesday' Nov 4 [1925]
Woman!
Mail came in to-day lots of it; nice some of it: from you, not one word.
Execrable Creature! Shame on your Sex! Disgrace to Norway! Forgotten of Allah in the Day when He remembereth His friends!
I could say much more: but honest! if the rain hadn't done its 24 inches an hour, I should have! Hell! I don't want to hear from all these people—though one of them did send me £1—I want
You!
(You were right, too. Murray [Adam Murray] stole £5 of Jane's [Jane Wolfe] in the coolest fashion.)
Well, you have only yourself to blame if Murray and Tranker [Heinrich Tränker] are nourished by their respective Governments for a long time to come.
Maddened by not hearing from you, I composed letters to various Public Prosecutors which will make some people sorry they came athwart my hawser!
I was in deepest agony. I wrote and wrote, and it rained and rained! Then it cleared up, and I went for a longish wade through the oasis, and now I am about 70% calmer, enough to write to you. If I'd tried before dinner, the ink would have exploded—and I can't afford a new fountain pen. Sober fact, I sat for over an hour in the garden debating whether to shoot myself. (owing to an interpellation by Representative Mahmoud ben Arami ben Aila, the debate was adjourned sine die—ad nocte, in fact! and now I'm getting too Latin for my darling). And I suppose you think it funny!
Darling, I love you so terribly that something has got to break very soon—or it will be my alas! I know not any word to express my sentiments. (The people in the next room are flirting ostentatiously: it is time for me to read de Goncourt. My last resort!)
Your love Aleister.
I sent you 20 postcards this A.M. Nice places. A.C.
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