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Correspondence from Wilfred Talbot Smith to Aleister Crowley
[20 January 1945]
Ill started. Ill maintained. Ill terminated. "This shrine is desolate of the devine." has ever been and I an completely empty. So much so, I do not know if I write accurately about myself. In fact I don't know anything at all. Have nothing, am nothing.
I started in a very bruised condition. Got over the resentment, but am none the less bruised, more so for I have added thereto in these months.
The worst of it is I have some years yet to go and the prospect of having to live with myself is I assure you not at all pleasant. For I can't see but that my brain will continually flog me till I go to sleep once and for all. I have ill understood your dealings with me these many years, and I am no better informed at this moment. It has seemed to me that much misinformation has been conveyed to you. But even that I will modify now, yet you have written such strange things of me that:—well, never mind, for I repeat I just don't know, have no ideas left about anything.
It all seems to be folding up together. Grimaud [Helen Parsons] has to soon move. Where? There is no place. Frater 210 [Jack Parsons] can't send any more money. Grimaud's is running out. These and the fierce stab of Regina's [Regina Kahl] death occurred all within a day or two. But above all I feel I have shot my bolt, such as it was and missed the mark.
From the utterly desolate state in which I started out, which held for months, I am glad to say very recently the joy in some of the masterpieces has returned to me. I expected never to write to you again; hardly know why I do. But there is a feeling one owes a gentleman a letter when one fails to turn up at a dinner engagement. Besides, I don't think I could get Grimaud to write you this; she refuses steadily to accept my negative view of this Grand Magical Retirement. You must be so inured to disciples' failures that just one more won't surprise you.
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