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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Edward Noel Fitzgerald
The Gardens, Torquay.
Dec. 4th. 1940.
Dear Noel,
93.
Glad of yours. My news is identical! Damned ill all November. Yes, the twin was filled: just by a nurse with a hyena laugh, looking exactly like "Steve, come on" in the Sunday Express; and since her departure, by an old halibut—a Plymouth sister!! It is rather fun proving to her that she is certainly damned. I think that I have been very wise to work off a spot of illness here—Torquay appears to be bloody awful. I had no real luck when I was well, though it should have been easy to have found an evacuee. At the moment I am more flat broke than ever: all I can do is to wait for news of the Tarot [The Book of Thoth] contract.
The Yi [King] is going rather well: I woke from semi-delirium one day with an illumination—and the strength to set it down. Two miracles. It was a reduction of the symbols to 20 coins: really neat and artful. Also I've given the final touches to my critical mnemonic paraphrase.
No, I have no red AL here. You might dig some out of Mrs. Goodall if she's back there. But I doubt it, I wrote her in Peebles 10 or so days ago: no answer. You might try ringing up: if she is there, tell her to let me know.
I'm rather fed up here. "Oh solitude where are the charms that sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms then stay in this horrible place" must have been written about this place. The natives baffle description; if one could describe them, it would baffle belief. The extra 20,000 odd people here may contain pearls; but one has to be actively about all the time to have a chance, and the black-out is ghastly.
Please answer this right away: a letter from any human being is like a benediction.
93 93/93
Yours ever.
A.C.
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