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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Louis Umfreville Wilkinson
10 Hanover Square W.1.
Feb 11 [1942]
PRIVATE
Dear Louis,
93.
You make me cry! I knew that negligence would play me some damn dirty tricks—in fact, it had—but nothing as bad as this. H E L L !
Yes, make it early in March, Give adequate warning: if needs be, wire. I'll keep any appointment if I have 24 hours notice. Unless in Brixton or worse. For the enclosed—excuse me the raggedness: thereby—"as by many a wind instrument that I know"—is to be multigraphed (till I can get a sympathetic printer—can you help?) and sent around. Honest, I see no hope for us but scrapping all that well-used toilet paper and pulping it to make padding for shells!
Yes, I'm wretched about these tantrums; you remember a bad one in June; a real catastrophe. She [Frieda Harris] is such a lamb: it hurts. No sense of the ridiculous. I rang up two days ago, really important. She hadn't one minute, not even to speak on the 'phone. Why? Nick had just been called up so to go back to his shop—and she had to do his packing for him! I don't believe she can even grasp how it sounded!
Bright lad, Nick! Crazy to have a woman, picks up a tart outside Barker's, raves about her: "Oh you wonderful girl! You simply must come to tea to-morrow afternoon. I do so want you to meet my mother!" This happened about 4 times a week for the last two months. Fact.
But I know what's the matter with him. The Rabbi made a mistake at the circumcision; threw him away, and kept the prepuce.
It has really been a dreadful strain on me: all sorts of urgent and important issues, and up bobs Nick with the latest, and drags her off to play gooseberry. Then P. [Percy Harris] has let the house go utterly to hell—she has had to stay at a hotel—vast, cold, inhuman, false. And she so warm, so human, and so true! It's pitiful. Well, he's gone now to the U. boats and minefields and dive-bombers and pocket-battleships—at Tewkesbury! Ce'st le couble!
Do let me know if you can use any of these "Landed Gentry": if so, how many? I think they express exactly what a whole lot of people are feeling—and might lead to something. I fear I cannot get Sir Percy to read it in the House. But may try Gallagher.
Fare thee well, and come up soon.
93 93/93.
Yours,
Aleister.
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