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Correspondence from Charles Stansfeld Jones to Gerald Yorke
4 March 1948
Dear Mr. Yorke,
Your letter of February 11 came to hand this evening. Am very glad to have this line from you.
I have only the original copy of Liber 31—A.C. had at the time the single carbon copy. The ms. is, however, only 32 pages so it would not be a very serious matter to have extra copies made. I think, for the purpose you mention, viz. deposit in British Museum after your death with your collection of Crowleyana, it might be worth while to do and I will give the matter consideration.
Meanwhile, would you mind throwing a little more light on things for me? I heard of A.C.'s death from the local paper, and later Time magazine. But I have no details whatever. Nor do I know at all how the latter part of his life was spent, his state of health, or who are his representatives in the U.S.A.—that is, except very indirectly. You say John Symonds is his literary executor. Is anyone supposed directly to be carrying on his magical work (in A∴A∴ for instance)? Did he, himself, arrange for further publications, or are these to be done through friends?
My own position is quite involved—am inclined to think am better off in the "silence"; nevertheless there is "history" to consider, as well as truth and justice.
Do drop me another friendly line if you have time.
Yours truly,
Frater Achad. (C. Stansfeld Jones.)
THE PASSING OF A GENIUS by C. Stansfeld Jones.
(Sent to Vancouver Daily Province but not published.) Editor's stamp—DEC 3 1947
May I be one of the first to pay tribute to the genius of Aleister Crowley, whose passing on December 1st at Hastings, England, has just been announced in the daily papers. He will long be remembered not alone as a colourful figure, a magician and mystic who, as the report says: "Claimed he had distilled and drunk the true elixir of life supposed to prolong life forever", but as a great poet.
First it may be said in regard to the above claim that when he sent me perhaps twenty years ago, a manuscript entitled The Elixir of Life, he therein gave some clue to the nature of the scientific experiments he was at that time still conducting. He made no claim to have discovered an elixir which would prolong life forever, so his death at the age of 72 is no indication of complete failure or necessarily of any lack of value in his researches. He clearly states: "As yet, we cannot drink at the source of Life, keep youth perpetual as we can now keep light , , , But" he continues "we have found the Super-food. We know a vehicle of which a few grains can house enough pure Life to fill a man, not only with nourishment, but with energy almost superhuman and , parallel, intelligence incredibly sun-bright for twenty-four hours. That substance is theoretically easy, but practically hard, to obtain. In England and America it would be impossible to procure any quantity, even of the raw material, at least in strength and purity; much less to prepare it."
His experiments, so far as they went, and I have no idea how far they did go in more recent years, may therefore have had considerable scientific value. It is to be hoped that some records will have been left to suitable persons for the carrying-on of his researches under more favourable conditions. But, be that as it may, his poetry will live in the hearts of many. His Song of Orpheus flashes and flames as we read it. Perhaps it is suitable that we now apply it to him:
The magical task and the labour is ended; The toils are unwoven, the battle is done; My lover comes back to my arms, to the splendid Abyss of the air and abode of the sun. The sword be assuaged, and the bow be unbended! The labour is past, and the victory won.
The arrows of song through Hell cease to hurtle. Away to the passionate gardens of Greece, Where the thrush is awake, and the voice of the turtle Is soft in the amorous places of peace, And the tamarisk groves and the olive and myrtle Stir ever with love and content and release.
O bountiful bowers and O beautiful gardens! O isles in the azure Ionian deep! Ere ripens the sun, ere the spring-wind hardens Your fruits once again ye shall have me to keep. The sleep-god laments, and the love-goddess pardons When love at the last sinks unweary to sleep.
C. Stansfeld Jones P.O. Box 11, Deep Cove, B.C.
[on the back of this Achad was written in pencil:]
"This shows my immediate reaction on hearing of the passing of A.C. from Vancouver Daily Province on Dec. 2nd. This, although rejected, was in the editor's hands by Dec. 3rd. It seems no one was allowed to try and say a good word for A.C. Achad."
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