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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Friday, 15 October 1920
2.27 a.m. All night writing the Prologue to 'Thuestos'—a bitter drink of bruised spices, and reminding one of 'Thyestes,' at the accursed feast. Thus a good two-edged title for the elegy on my Poupée (Leah's [Leah Hirsig] Poupée too) which I am writing so as not to go mad.
3.50 a.m. Opus[1] XI, 31-666-31 [Leah Hirsig]. Operation: fascinating fond. Object: inward to 93. Elixir: immensely copious and powerful.
9.40 a.m. As a lad I was taught to sniff at the simple-mindedness of chemists before they found that a burnt element was not destroyed. Because the carbon disappeared they thought it was destroyed—we sneered—as one might say. But apply the analogy to death-change; and horror! I can't see why a 'soul' should not be an Element. It has more 'symptoms' than Argon—eh? We cannot isolate and weigh it, true; but that was the case with fluorine a generation ago.
A name for a lawyer—'Hangman's pimp'.
1—[Crowley performs a magical sexual operation.]
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