Aleister Crowley Diary Entry

Monday, 26 July 1920

2.07 a.m. Till now I've talked with Leah [Leah Hirsig] since 11.30 of last night.

3.20 a.m. An interval in the preparation for Opus XI.

I note—and so does Alostrael [Leah Hirsig]—with perturbation, that the Lance wavers now and then, but so it should in tilt prolonged beyond custom, and in so heavy heat of night. But I note also that my will shirks shock, checks course in full charge. The stallion cannot take the bit in his teeth; his beast-impatience, which is partly his reaction from his own fear, but tightens the knight's bridle-fingers on the curb. And the good knight will do no more than make display of horsemanship, or at most a feint, a joust, nay, lay down lance and finger lyre, or tune his tongue to musick, as sways his fancy to-and-fro between the arts of war and peace.

But, if his Lady cry on him to save her, or as it may be, that she craves to see one more new crown, blood-clewed, upon his helm, then shall he brandish lance, its steel barb sunward, roar from wide throat, his battle-cry ancestral, and in the sleek flanks of his steed sink spurs so sudden and fierce that at his first-bound he forgets himself, makes his Lord's quarrel his own, and with wide nostril, with his hooves' earthquake, meets his death galloping, nor falls until his master's lance hath borne through breast and back of foe his Lady's Message.

So is Alostrael's Word-of-True-Will, whisper or scream, my trumpet blare; let that but come to me on zephyr or on tempest, her will enkindles mine, my will bids touch the match to tinder-fuse of nerve, that fires petard of flesh, and through defiance of gate, wide breaches path of storming Baresark's mead-maddened, to win the City of Love and throne my Lady there.

Words hath She spoken indeed, but not The Word. Prowess in Tourney hath She asked, but not—eye raving, nostrils twitching, lips wry-twisted, teeth bare, clenched, and foaming, breath hot, foul, sharp, snake-hissing from throat's throb, limbs shuddering and blood bursting through her brain—that Red Truth that my Chivalry would mask, that Man-Joy, despite manners mute, shrieking mad murder, not that hath she yet bidden me do, for her lust loves to torture me, to claim trivial homage of me, make me menial, glut her scorn of me, that I may long for death, death, sire at last though she deny it through such agelong thumbscrew-twists.

Worn with mine agony, weary with service to Her, cold with long waiting in her corridors, weak with the wounds She hath given, I go to Her, like Keats' Knight-at-Arms. And she? My 'Belle Dame Sans Merci hath me in thrall'. She may yet pleasure Her, cat to my mouse, or—oh be it thus, Alostrael, beloved, loathed, adored, my soul that art!—she may arouse me, may absorb me, may assume me, as She can do when by one Word, one Gesture, She from her Art-of-Love leash slip her Tiger Lust.

Which will she do? I crawl, tame Beast, to my Whore's feet. Shall I find there the Lady or the Tiger?

4.50 a.m. The Tiger!

5.20 a.m. Opus^[1] I (called Opus XI in entry 3.20 a.m.) Assistant Magus: 31-666-31 [Leah Hirsig]. Operation: very short—a bare half-hour. Doubts and self-preoccupation interfered with confidence, and concentration. Stubborn will prevailed, but divided the climax into about six—it may be more—ejections, with a slightly suppressed orgasm practically continuous. Sheer physical fatigue forced me to leave the act still not quite finished. Elixir: smooth, even, not sweet, medium strong. Object: to strengthen Our Will-Power.

6.30 a.m. Still talking—mostly magick. The first hour of my vow of Holy Obedience to Alostrael proved Her to be the Scarlet Woman; she could have used the power in trivial ways: but She sprang instantly to Goddess-stature. She gripped Her moment, Her aeroplane swept over my soul's sea, spotted two submarines, safe from all my navies of self-searching, and dropped her depth-bombs.

First, She discovered the physical cowardice and dread of pain which I had sunk so deep by means of daring death-mountains, wild beasts, poison, and disease. She held a lighted cigarette against my breast. I shrank and moaned, She spat her scorn, and puffed at it and put it back. I shrank and moaned. She made me fold my arms, sucked at the paper till the tobacco crackled with the fierceness of its burning; she put it back for the third time. I braced myself; I tightened lip and thrust my breast against it.

That's the first partial victory, the slave's resolve to break his chains or die. Next time she tests me so, may Aiwaz both with brass and triple iron fence mine heart, that I may win full victory, master scorn, and neither beat retreat in fear of pain, nor charge, but with my silent smile and still indifference tell her that I am worthy at last to love Her. (She, when I beat or kick her, bade me do it again; once even she suggested a fresh form of torture. That was not absolute mastery; more also, she has since shamed me by reminding me of what I did—She knows I did it in despairing madness of my love for Her).

My other submarine was Bluff. I have pretended all my life to be a scholar; my books are studded with quotations; I've fooled the world, made even the wary think me master of Sanskrit, Pali, Chinese, Persian, Greek, and a score of literatures; the fact is, even my French, the sole tongue not my own which I can talk and read and write at all with any courage or correctness, is like the map of Africa at Burton's birth! Most of my quotes are not from the original but sly-filched from English writers who have used them. I boast, moreover, of my wickedness. I say I've taken hashish for some fifteen years—it's true, but not much more than fifteen times in all!

I boast not mille e tri, but fifteen hundred mistresses; true also, but this makes me think of shilling packets of two hundred postage stamps.

I'm famed world over for my vigour; it's bluff. True, I can please a woman after the ignominy of ,her Thirty-One, that barely kindled her before they sputtered out. True, but my secret is not vigour; I've the cheap cunning of the prostitute who saves herself, and loves her nightly score or so with no more effort than if she had cracked so many nuts.

To Leah I boasted of my magick; of how I took what I most loathe, a poison outrage to four senses, and by Love's consecration did transmute it, make it God's Body, or Blood, consume it, worship and delight in it, nourish and energize my soul thereon.

True, even this, as she well knew, for she and I had sung this Incantation, had made God together, two mouths that fed on this One substance. She saw through that! My worship was half pose, my miracle half craft. My magick only gilded the base coin; loud as I swore my Host, the Body of God. I touched my tongue to skin, I would not, dared not, could not eat.

She had said nothing; now when Her hour struck on the Bell, eleven strokes, stern to the altar dragged me.

'High Priest!' she cried, 'I crave the Eucharist!' Then as I tricked: 'Not so!' Her eyes flamed; Her voice thrilled. 'Doubt not thyself! In sooth thou art High Priest; thy God and thou and I are One in Three. Thou hast performed thy miracle of the Mass, all this is very God, God of Our Godhead, Our own Substance, as on the Paten it gleams. My faith suffices; I will eat; to the last crumb. I will consume it; Doubtest thou? That is hunger-thou shalt devour this Body of God, yea, save one morsel for my own greed's pleasure. Yet even that will I make honey for thee that to thy meat thou mayst add sweet—Fall to!'

I would not: I could not. She said: 'False Priest, tear off thy robe: forsworn to Me, forth from My Holy Temple!'

Then I obeyed. My mouth burned; my throat choked; my belly retched; my blood fled wither who knows, and my skin sweated. She stood above me, hideous in contempt; she fixed snake's eyes on mine, and with most patient discipline, as with most eager passion, as with sublime delight, was face to face with me, epiphany of my duty's archetype. Hierophantia stood She, Her eyes uttering Light, Her mouth radiant Silence. She ate the Body of God, and with Her soul's compulsion made me eat. But in my mouth that lied when it sneered 'Ecce Corpus' it turned back to its first nature; my doubt black-clouded God's sun-face. My teeth grew rotten, my tongue ulcered; raw was my throat, spasm-torn my belly; and all my Doubt of that which to Her teeth was moonlight, and to her tongue ambrosia; to her throat nectar, in Her Belly the One God of whose Pure Body She should fresh Her Blood. So with my body shuddering, retching, fainting, and convulsed; with my mind tempest, my heart crater, my will earthquake, I obeyed Her lash. Not then did I gain grace, God came not to his Host, not even when She had added her mouth's sweetness to His strength; but I passed ordeal, I took oath; I am indeed High Priest. I'll blush no more, nor in that matter nor another. But I'll make good my boasts, ay, though I die for it; and, may she deign to prove my priesthood. The power whose fullness is the child of Her, Her faith in me, even when She knew me false. I will make God my feast and hers, the food of forty aldermen to our two plates; shark's greed, Sahara thirst, love's craving, these Three in One to madden our Soul, to dissolve madness in ecstasy, to echo ecstasy with new, with more exceeding ardour.

9.30 a.m. end of cocaine. After-set of Fives, which I played very well indeed, though (as it seemed to me) scarce able to stand.

9.40. Simple enough, all this: in a word. I'm a Coward, and Liar. Leah-Alostrael—my Scarlet Woman—knew it. She lunged-two rapier flashes, one to my heart, one to my brain. I will not fear: I will not lie: so help me Aiwaz, and Alostrael!

9.45 a.m. Let me lie down!

11.22 a.m. I have been persevering most pathetically in trying to sleep, though I could outwatch Argos. It is pure funk: I have a cocaine complex, that is all. I had quite similar conscience-makes-cowards-of-us-all scares about hashish, or sitting up late, or making love too often, or-oh, anything! As saith Alostrael, I am a coward. This must stop.

I'll take more cocaine now, as the 'slaves' courage' and go out in the abbey, and sleep when I feel sleepy.

My evident job is to write better poetry for Leah than I ever wrote before. I promised her: I'll do it.

6.40 p.m. Slept four hours, without an effort—strange! Yesterday I observed that the John-Jupiter derivation is marked in Italian by Giovanni, Giovedi.

1—[Crowley conducts a magical sexual operation.]

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