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Correspondence from Aleister Crowley to Montgomery Evans
Thursday
Oh, but that was a naughty letter, wasn't it? You see, I was really crushed to [illegible] by not hearing from you. Now, another 24 hours, and still no word! But I acquired Energy: so I'm out to give you an idea of my day.
7.30 Woke after a long night's sleep (I do hope you're getting some!) Chocolate and little cakes.
8 - 10.30 Got up, in short spasms. I return to bed at intervals in the process, and read. To-day 'twas a novel of de Goncourt "Mme Gervaisais" (You'd like it lots).
10.30 - 12 Started a story "Health, wealth, and happiness" (Need I tell you the plot? The man who has none of them gets along fine: they all come to him suddenly, and he's so bored he kills himself).
12 - 1 Lunch. Food here very good indeed: varied and well thought-out. They try to feed one. Wine A.1.
1.30 After a short rest I walked out to the sea, and practised my new Automatic—a Webley and Scott .32. I'm getting quite a fair shot again—will certainly not miss myself if you don't write soon.
A long long walk in the sun (which is not a bit too hot here, and there are practically no flies) over the Aviation ground. Horribly [illegible] after yesterday's torrential rain.
3.30 Reached Arab café. My dearly beloved old man with his brown horse found me: I was lazy, so made him drive me out and home through the oasis. A glorious drive, but I did so want you.
4.40 Back; bought some papers and another novel—not a good one, I fear!—and came up to bed to write this; when I've finished I'll read and smoke a bit, and finish the story.
7.30 Should be dinner ([illegible]!) after which a short walk will make me nice and tired oh dear! but it's lonely without my big doll!
That's all just now.
9.0 P.M. All right, that's that! Believe me or not, that ghastliest of blitheness, that tub of hogwash, that streptococcus, that mule, that joint-stool, that badger's egg, that lamp of [illegible], that luggage-label, that sou-[illegible], that provincial-colonial-journalist Aumont [Gerard Aumont] hasn't turned up (after keeping me a week waiting for him) and hasn't even had the common decency to send me a wire.
I am aroused to decisive action. Of course, if I hear from you to-morrow something definite, that is the keystone of my arch; but if not, I shall plunge into the trackless desert with a camel, and be lost to communication for about a week. The idea is to see whether I can tire my misery out, or whether it will tire me out! Oh damn it, a wire from you would flood me with all light and life. Without news of you, I beat my brains against the window, like a bee in a flower-pot. Excuse my aberrations, but I'm certainly writing you a wonderful series of letters! They're literature; that's my only consolation. But they're so so long—I do wish we could come to the happy ending soon.
Till to-morrow, then!
Yours ever
Aleister
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