Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Gerald Yorke

[Undated: circa February 1932]

My dear Father (wrote our ancestor Blackstone)—I assume that he has been born; if not, let us say Farinacci—is sharper than your cleaver. I will therefore carve the souls of men, and a career for myself, instead of mutton chops. My son will not be a baron of beef, but Baron Hardwicke.

To-day

     

My dear Father

     

In an obscure situation, only one thing is clear: we are all in the soup. I am your son; on me rests the whole responsibility of the Fortune of the Family. I accept the Burden. The Victorian Formula of playing safe is no longer valid; Forthampton cannot stay Forthampton; unless it is to become a Soviet Refuge for Incurable Plumbers' Assistants' Aunts; it must develop into a Castle (Read your Roman History).

     

You admit that your system is doomed, that neither you nor any of your friends know what to do. I do know; you will go down in history as a traitor to the Family unless you back me to the limit.

     

Yr afft son.

(The A.1. Section 1 Class 1 in the History Tripos can meditate the above, and put it in convincing language.)

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