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Correspondence from Frieda Harris to Aleister Crowley
The Mall, Chiswick.
[Undated]
Dear Aleister,
I am very sorry but I am unable to protect you from yourself. Out of the inextricable confusion of your real and bogus financial affairs I find only one thing–that you will always be in a muddle and that to attempt to help you is like filling a leaking cistern and I do not propose to begin to do so. I have told you, always, I have a weekly allowance and that my lessons from you are saved out of that and I cannot draw from the Bank more than I have, and if I can't pay for a thing I do not buy it.
Anything in the nature of a speculation is quite foreign to my nature or my pocket. Your campaign of giving people too much to eat and drink in order to placate them in the Great Work is all wrong, and I expect you know it. If only you could be simple and dignified, people would flock round you to get what they really want in these hard times—that is the help of a colossal brain but, instead you cook for them because you are bored by them, and incidentally would like them to produce the wherewithal to stock your fantastic restaurant and cellar. Can't you stop—I suppose you can't. I think partly Peggy was bewildered by your eloquence, and ordered for your kitchen a great deal more than any one can afford.
This is not my affair, but please do not try to get me to help. You prevent me from doing what I would like to do and, that is work on the Tarot Book [The Book of Thoth] with you, as I absolutely refuse to be entangled by your efforts to boost an absurdity. What a pity. I fear even now the work will be unfruitful.
The House of God appears to me as vortex not a mouth, or is it yours which can't be filled by mortal effort try as you may.
Yours sincerely,
Frieda Harris
I can only spare you the subscription as I will not ask for money for myself or anyone else but I will send it registered tomorrow with Thursday's stipend.
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