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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Gerald Yorke
Die
[Undated: circa mid January 1932]
C∴[are] F∴[rater]
93.
On Sunday I got a go of asthma bad enough to render me helpless; so Bill [Bertha Busch] (abetted by the sinister Hamilton [Gerald Hamilton]) rang in a doctor on me. That, with the medicine, has bust the show. To-day is all we can count on. Absolutely no development in any quarter; but Lees in Paris found a MS of Little Essays Toward Truth and is quite off his head about them. This sort of thing is always happening; and it is much less gratifying than infuriating! To think that a hundred thousand people would adore these essays if they were properly presented. And its seven years since they were written. And you are annoyed that I don't write more and more and more—!!!
You had better attend yourself to all postulants at present; but do try to be absolutely business-like.* Also, stick to the regulations of the Order. I blame myself much for having relaxed them on many occasions, because it seemed good sense to do so. "May Because be accursed for ever!"
Bill read your desert notes and agrees with me that they are A.1.
Russell [C. F. Russell] appears a quite irresponsible maniac. Don't say anything against him to French; but insist that he join no club or society but correspond with you alone.
Too tired after the big show (it was nearly as spectacular as one of Allan Bennett's daily or almost daily attacks!—so I can't complain) to write more.
Bill is asleep, worn out with nursing me and getting 4 weeks washing done—but she's probably dreaming of you.
93 93/93
F∴[raternal]ly
666.
* A good typewriter and orthography would help. In your last letter is "their" for "there" and "write" for "right." Do try Liber III for your hurry and carelessness!
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[Tuesday].