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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Wednesday, 20 October 1920
I notice that ‘Oh, so much!’[1] requires little exegesis.
1. Our baby dies; 2. Our next baby isn’t born; 3. I have a bad boil; 4. The Detroit-books, Arctaeon [Charles Stansfeld Jones] ill; 5. The London books;[2] 6. The dog Satan[3] murdered, etc. etc.
In the month more has happened than in any one year of my life.
1—[The current Word of the Equinox.] 2—[The fine art printers and publishers, the Chiswick Press, who had published several of Crowley’s works, circa 1907, had copies of his books in storage. They refused to release them.]
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