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Correspondence from Jack Parsons to Marjorie Cameron
6 Feb. 50
Dear Candida [Marjorie Cameron]
I saw David today, and found him somewhat more mature and thoughtful than I remembered. I found him quite perceptive when I mentioned the malignant ossification of the facade.
Your art books are at your mother's—you asked me not to send anything except the Golden Bough. There are some other books you should have—The King and the Corpse by Heinrich Zimmer—The Hero with a Thousand Faces—and a new novel called Rock Pool. I will get you a copy of The Book of Lies, which is sort of official manual of the Abyss, utterly meaningless in duality, however. Also I am sending Liber 7, which is a sort of song from the other side, also without meaning in the lower Sephiroth. David's description makes it sound to me (a skyring between the lines) like Tin Man Beo [?] a dream world with good and evil countercharged upon a field of azure. It may be well.
Let us look for a moment at the other side—assuming we have passed the last outposts above the abyss—Binah (= sorrow = understanding) and Chokmah (= wisdom = power) and so come to Kether, the Crown. Here, in the gardens of eternity, only two views are possible—Indifference (Nibbana) and Comedy (N.O.X. = Pan). Of the first, the great expositions are the Bhagavadgita and the Life of Lord Guatama Buddha, the noble twofold path. Of the second, the Life of Christ and the works of the great western adept, Francois Rabelais.
From this view Christianity is simply hilarious. The idea of God being unable to communicate with his creations, and said creations proceeding to murder each other in the name of his love, is high vaudeville. Rabelais' description of the sheer ecstasy of taking a shit in the midst of the serious projects of life is on the same par. In eternity, you can take nothing seriously, and All turns out to be a bonem [bonum?], so you deliberately limit yourself just for the fun of it, for the adventure. It is the Graal told in inverse. Tragedy is the privilege of mortality, and the whole thing trembles on the verge of a grin, and often a howl.
Thinking is a language, language is words and the world is a literary creation. That is why a dash of humbug is necessary for any real success, humbug raised to the pitch of fine art. That is why art finally gets bored with its own perfection and winds up deliberately distorting itself—seeing how far it can go in the ludicrous and still keep touch with perfection.
It is all a question of spiritual vitality—of maintaining contact with the secret center that assures us that everything is really a high lark. The weaker sink down and are absorbed, the stronger may sink, but they popup again with a new and better angle.
The secret strength is actually in death, in the link with eternity we wear in our bones. Our true self moves in life and death, in eternity and duality, as we move in sunlight and shadow, and with as much concern. We dance to the pipe of Pan, whether we know it or not we dance, and the last and greatest truth is the joy—the pure, sheer joy of the dance. On the face of the Dancing Shiva at Delhi someone has carved it—some music—some words open a window on infinity and we look suddenly on Arcady. Only the cry—the whine of the self keeps us from it—forgetting that, and we step into it as easily as across the door. Remember this, my dear—what your Karma has put upon you no one knows but your deep self. It may be to set the world on fire, or to know—to keep your counsel, and be at peace and in joy. But none of these are to be sought after. It is only to know yourself—to find yourself—to be yourself. That and that alone is the way.
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