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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Louis Umfreville Wilkinson
10 Hanover Square London W.1.
Feb 6 [1942]
Dear Louis,
93.
Your continued absence has been a great bore. Frieda [Frieda Harris] has been here for the last 6 weeks, which is delightful, but hellish for her, with her family vampires draining her of every ounce of energy, and her horde of Bloomsbury-minded parasites, satellites and sycophants constantly poisoning her mind.
She has no defence because she hates reality; she will not understand that truth and only truth can make one free. It goes hard with escapes to where they approach the Grand Climacteric.
E pur si muove [and yet it does move]: see enclosed. A rough pull, unvarnished, edges not done, colours bad and blotchy. But it's one step towards success.
On the whole, then, I'm as buckish as one can be in this weather. Don't know about you—at Colwyn Bay I hear no snow, all snowdrops—but here! Well, I can get out when I've promised a bottle. Nothing less.
Do write me how it goes with you: far better, lie thee hither on thy coal-black charger. Damn it, I'm utterly worn out with hearing other peoples' burdens. My ass still baulks: if I can pull off a pending deal, I shall take an honest-to-God rest cure.
93 93/93.
Yours ever,
Aleister.
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