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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Gerald Yorke
Karlsruherstrasse 2. Berlin-Halensee.
[Undated: 4 January 1932]
C∴[are] F∴[rater]
93.
It's the limit!
I thought Karl's [Karl Germer] girl would have left him sensible—at least I hoped so. They lived in our bosom and were warm. Then out of a clear sky—Karl has written a letter: pages of raving, some of it the filthiest abuse of Bill [Bertha Busch], who has been killing herself to make things pleasant for him.
This time it is serious, and he will go to prison.
The girl has naturally given him the boot to begin with.
I destroyed the letter, which Bill would not let me send Cora [Cora Eaton]. But damn it all! She'll find out the whole thing in a few days, and she'd better have been prepared for it from a source which she is fool enough to consider unreliable.
Our own affairs are past praying for; we need a man. At least the Gods do.
Bill is slowly getting better. I was really ill yesterday: asthma all day, despite injections. So, I guess that's that.
I don't see at the moment how you will get over the magical bar to chieftainship—unless some damn miracle happens, and the Gods give you another chance.
I feel somehow that you would be O.K. if you understood the machinery of Magick—if you saw the whole thing from outside, and from the perspective of say 100 years.
Wish you were here.
93 93/93
F∴[raternal]ly
666.
Bill is asleep now—Germer's swinish attack upset her badly, after all her great goodness to him—but I'm sure she sends you every blessing. A good woman!
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