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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Edward Noel Fitzgerald
July 12 1944.
Dear Noel,
93.
([Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the] Law with a big L please).
It's no good you running around with your tongue hanging out! The doodle bugs have delayed the binder [of The Book of Thoth]. Anyhow, you subscribed rather late, and it will be lucky if I can send your copy in the first batch. Being broke as usual—at least, in agony about nothing—the C.O.D. lot must get the first whack. Trouble is, I can't count up to thirty. I dare say it will be O.K.
Chronic subconscious anxiety about friends in London—also MSS etc—reacts by making me tired and nervous. We are within range here, but it would be a fluke if we got it. You own "lousy" feeling is shared by all; it's the boredom of the war. Even in the firing line they get so that ennui replaces fear.
I may be able to send your copy next week end. But I can't promise.
93 93/93.
Ever yours,
Aleister.
P.S. It's a bloody fine production.
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