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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Thursday, 22 July 1920
Continuing love-talking-orgie at 1.45 a.m. There should be some telesmatic figure or pantacle of our Trinity. Aiwaz being 31-31-31, Alostrael [Leah Hirsig], 31-666-31 [Leah Hirsig], and The Beast, 666, i.e. five AL's and two others. (728 equals 56 x 13; NU on the middle scale of Expansion or NU in Love and Unity.)
I swore to take Her as my High Priestess to Him, and act accordingly. She is to direct all action, taking the initiative throughout.
4.00 a.m. We have been continuing Cocaine in a Lesbian Orgie in which I was Alys her tribade,[1] after a frightful ordeal of cruelty and defilement put on me as Her first passion for Her slave, which tore from me the last rag of manhood, violated my last veil of modesty, degraded me below the dog and the hog, revolted even my body, and made me free forever of my preferences for matter, made me Pure Spirit. From it she rose Ishtar, Love's Goddess, and drew me into Her womb; Her Babe am I, Harpocrates the Soft-limbed child, Parsifal the Pure Fool, Bacchus the Epicene and drunken Ass-bestrider, and that smooth-plumed that innocent Dove that men have called the Holy Ghost.
It is for Her to nurse Her Babe, train it with Her sharp whips and sharper words, bring it to puberty, to virile might, and like Semiramis or like Ratoum in my own play, murder him in his Father's House, poison him with the milk he throve on, fling him Her Satan, into the Bottomless Pit, black shiny walls smooth-stretching from the flame-jagged gaping gateway, hell's reek hot-smoking forth of it, whence first he issued to those stupid wanderings that nought could end but their own homecoming.
This Word is the interpretation of my Silence; She reads it as I write. In a moment or an hour, or (in sheer suicide-lust) never again, She will rise up, command me, master me, lash me to manhood, torture and mock me, smear her snake-slaver over me, and with foul word and act make me the tool of Her abominable craft. She will perform Her Black-nay, Her unnameably-hued Mass, from my base body, elevate Her God, suck out His life, and spill it on Her midden. Her Winged Egg, my Phoenix, shall cook together in moist Fire; Her crystal sea shall be enriched with pearls of God-consecrated Oyster, and wash nor scentless nor mire-untainted shores.
And Her Concoction shall be sweet in our mixed mouths, the Sacrament that giveth thanks to Aiwaz, our Lord God the Devil, that He hath fused His Beast's soul with His Scarlet Whore's, to be One Soul completed, that It may set His image in the Temple of Man, and thrust His Will's rod over them and rule them. And that imperléd Sea, dark with that oozy shore-mud which it washed, shall wash us, body and mind, of all that is not He, moisten our throats and loosen our loud Song of Praise, Thanksgiving unto Him.
I write these words in agony of nerve; I loathe the pen, I loathe this mental Onan-play; this Tantalus-thirst is nowise eased by mirage-wells of word.
I want Her to tear this diary from my hand, to smash my sham love-castles, to go mad, so drug-crammed as She is, shatter my dreams of what seems Heaven with an awaking violence that I too well know Hell's reality.
Curse Her, the fiend l How well She understands the Art of Torture. She has leant over me, and from Her mouth She has uttered an Abomination and from Her throat confirmed its infamy in Act. And then She sank beside me! She lets me rage; She knows I dare not look at Her, lest in my lust of Her I break mine oath of Service. Ah! but She knows-that Food has fledged my schoolboy chin! And so She, in Her whim, cries 'Slave, thy Queen's weary of thy tameness, thy dog-cringe; canst thou not guess when I would play the maid, coyly invite, or modestly reprove? and if I weary of that game, as I may, and lash thine insolence, art thou not slave at all times? Come, I am chaste, pure goddess and true wife. I want to be insulted by a thing like thee, lower than all my dreams of vileness-yea, for my acts on thee were greater, more hideous, more unclean, than my mind's cesspool that conceived them!
'So low art thou—crawl to my floor-blacked feet, and call them snowpure marble; then rise to things more horrible, find word and deed of worship, till in my body's Lake of Fire thou burn and shrivel, choke on the fivefold foulness of My breath, and as thou diest call My asp-vitriol Water of Life, My belch the Spirit of God, our sterile and most blasphemous Abortion-slime, the God-Babe Eucharist.
'You dog! to your slaves' task! to your mock Love, you dog! You dirty dog! Do it, you dirty dog! To my soiled feet, lap them, you dirty dog! You dirty dog!'
She . . . makes . . . me . . .
7.30 a.m. Opus[2] VIII, 31-666-31 p[er] o[s].[3] Operation: unparalleled. Elixir: copious, rich, perfect. Object: to thank 93 for uniting our souls.
9.10 a.m. Opus IX, 31-666-31. Operation: incredible. Elixir: as Opus VIII. Object: to increase pleasure in love.
9.30 a.m. The way to attack Fermat's Last Theorem has come to me suddenly. One has to show that the loose ends in any expansion can never be an expansion of that order. Thus 2x + I in x2 + 2x + I - x2 can never be a square unless x = 4, as if is obvious. Equally for 4X + 4, 6x + 9, and so on. For xy cannot be a square unless x = y. The intermediate terms between xn and yn in any expansion cannot themselves be zn: obvious again, but proof obscure. Bother Fermat!
The day has passed in shopping and sleeping. Tunis. Boat late.
2—[Crowley conducts a magical sexual operation.]
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