Aleister Crowley Diary Entry

Saturday, 23 October 1920

Midnight! I have just read aloud the chapter above indicated to Alostrael [Leah Hirsig]. It is as a King's Daughter, all-glorious within, and its kiss has kindled me to very ecstasy of Love. I doubt myself at times; it is because the worm Hope, instead of writhing under mine atheist feet, occupies my Rectum. My divination still goes astray, far too often. The symbol errs only when my desire does violence to my method. But even when I divine freely, I frequently read it with spectacles of hope and fear. For instance, Poupée's symbol was 'Diminution'; and she wasted slowly away almost from birth. I knew it at the time, but forced myself to find a less fatal interpretation. Then, when she was ill in May, I took a new symbol and got 'Increasing'. She did pick up for a while; but this symbol was, as I knew in my heart, merely a temporary modification of the General Symbol. And line 6—'one to whose increase none will contribute'—we tried every food known, but she wasted away to death. I knew it all along; but I would not face truth, and fooled myself. I clung more closely to her, against my general and my particular knowledge alike; so made I fiercer texture for myself when Death tore her from me. Once a cancer is diagnosed, it is madness to postpone the operation. Desire-fear-folly: we want the impossible, pretend that its poor image is itself, then fear to lose that worthless thing, then suffer, losing it, as if it had been the true thing we never had. Mrs Solnesst and her dolls! That is Humanity, more than the Master Builder's self.

Death's night [?]—and left at my girl summer—sojourning and at my boy birth-barred struck me as Job was stricken. Nay, more; I had no God to curse, no faith in Righteousness, no confidence in Nature's purpose. My love's close coils were smitten asunder by the same axe-stroke that cleft her and him; my love lay writhing and bleeding, a dead snake in the dust. I should have watched them from the Tree of Life, aloof and wary, warned them and whispered them my wisdom, made them as Gods. Had I done so it may be Death himself had feared to hunt these woods; for my fang's poison is death to Death; I am he that holdeth Knowledge high, my head Truth-crested, Silence-hooded, so leaveth Life to wind its way on the earth, no more to me than a means of raising up that holy head, fearless to gaze upon the world with lidless eyes.

But I let life love life; I clung; mine eyes saw only theirs, and in them mine own image. Their innocence dazzled me; their breath dizzied me. The Woodcutter saw his chance; he struck; the mortal put on immortality.

Oh Sweet, oh frail, my love made flesh for my delight, oh living laughing eyes, blue heavens of light star-peopled, oh mouth smile-garlanded with poppy, oh tiny and tenacious hands that fastened so firm-fondly on my fingers, oh tender flesh of mine own flesh, in thee was wisdom beyond mine. Thou knewest thou must come to me for this one summer, then go thy way among the stars as star, whispering me thy word that I should love no more things perishable, no more prefer the part before the whole, no more distinguish dream from dream, but with whole Godhead marry Heaven, adore Her undivided body, all Stars thereof one soul of Her. Go then serene, my daughter; thou hast been wine bright-bubbling at thy birth, and on my palate rapture; the soul of sunlight and the body of earth mine incense and my sacrament; but in thy death hast thrilled my blood, and in my brain been the One Miracle, flesh manifesting Spirit, the initiating intoxication whereby I am that I am, All-Self and no more!

Anu Leah [Poupée], go, blossom of me, go on thy Way, blown on the wind that tore thee from my stem, bending me sorely, not uprooting me; go, thou wast born to make me trulier man by loving thee; go, thou hast died to make me trulier God by losing thee! Hail thou, and fare thee well!

But thou, my son, who then wast thou? Thou wast to be my holiest hope, my pride and pleasure, hidden beneath the heart of my true fellow, of Leah my love, Alostrael my sister.

How was the hap that thou wouldst not abode in the ark, thou who shouldst save my race when Heaven flings wide its floods, and all its waters cover my head? At the solstice of the summer, in splendour of Sicily, wast thou begotten of these loins, in passion violent as the sun, in rapture eager as wine of these suave slopes, in love as strong and deep, as shining as this seal.

We yearned for Spring, when thou shouldst leap to the light, challenge the world with a strong cry, my son, my lion's whelp. Autumn was scarce upon us, sweeping with storms, savage and heavy with hail, demoniac with jagged levin and crowded thunders, its wind wild from the west tearing and tossing oak and olive. Silent we stood thy mother and I, our stern souls faced our sorrow. Our darling that delighted us; she was but two days dead. Stubborn we stood, denying ourselves even a tear, flint-steady for the steel of the future. Thou, oh my son, thou wast the spark of our intensity of hope. Then he that hateth us hailed Death, bade him strike home to our hearts-to our one heart—a second, a fouler felony. My love her soul is a' tall tower impregnable; Fate never breached it by assault, Life never mastered it by treason. But in their camp they hold an hostage, her flesh, loyal through all their torture. They tore the first child from her arms and flung it to the dogs; now from her holiest harbour they drag thee, thy sister's blood scarce clotted on their hangman's hands. They twisted in her bowels the dagger of agony, and broke her limbs with the club of despair.

My son, I looked upon thee as I thought never to look. Thou wast my son, my flesh, my blood, my seed, my soul's champion in the Journey of Time. And thou wast dead, a red raw parody of the shape of man, a thing obscene and shameful, thou wast a senseless and disgusting joke played by coarse, callous, filthy-minded fools. And still thou wast my son. Life stirred in thee, though not to light of birth, liberty of weaning, love of puberty mightiest thou came; and so, what life was thine? What soul art thou? What is thy Word from the gods, my son? Thy word to me as mine own sickness I keep vigil night through by my love's bed, the bed slack from thy begetting, the bed yet bloody from thy death?

Is thy word this, that of my body no seed shall stem the centuries, no son succeed to guardianship of the Most Sacred Lance, carry my crest on his helm, and bear my banner forward in the battle? At least thou hast spoken one thing by the tongue of thy mockery to me, thy boy's obscene gibe at my manhood, articulate to my soul that shall not swerve from this or that, scorned howesoever and scourged, here spat upon, there stoned, now swinging on the gallows, then blackening at the stake. Thou art indeed my son, but yet not more my son than I am my father's, he of his, and so of hairy cave-creatures that bate chipped stones for swords of apes four armed and gross of jaw.

My son, thou wouldst not add a link to that our chain of sand, thou wouldst not share our pride in shot-drill, or add a chapter to our dull novel; we know the ink fades almost ere it dries, we know there is no plot; we know each page is tragic; we know there is no hope to avoid fatuity, to find coherence, to see worth in its continuance, or to make its end excuse its course, though a God start from the machine. It cannot end, it can but stop and thou wast wise, my son that mightest have tricked me with false hopes, made my insensate longings take dead leaves wind-rustled in the cave of Despair for Oracles of Apollo, wise wast thou, wiser than I, to fling away the pen!

For what of me shouldst thou inherit? Behold the heirlooms of mine house! Here is the gilded pewter armour of pride, there the fierce highbridged nose, the beak of our Viking ship. Here is our worm-eaten mask, religion, and this, with the Phallic handle, is our scourge, Puritanism. Look well at this purse with glue at the top and a hole in the bottom; that's our greed and our folly. These handcuffs are our conventionality—I never wore them, son o' mine—and this painted pig's bladder is our family eloquence, the first who had it was Fool to a King. But now we come to the treasures of our clothes marked out truest plain with our name; you would have had to wear them, had you braved birth, son o' mine! No, not in that cupboard with all those locks and bolts; that's new, for the family skeleton, which is of course myself. The boots with the spikes inside are my grandfather's gout, and the waistcoat lined with quicklime is my aunt's consumption. The brass belt is riveted on when you came of age; it is Indigestion. See that glorious old watch? How loud it ticks, how fast! That's our weak heart. The queer-shaped hat on the hook is insanity; unless your head is unusually large it covers your face. I wear it over one ear myself. All that rotten underwear stained with blood and pus is our Legend of Love, so to speak; the neatly chalked gloves are our rheumatism.

A pretty collection my son? You showed sense to insist on moving into jar of alcohol after three months of material restriction. We overlooked that corkscrew on the watch-chain, by the way, it dates from the First Crusade, and is our Entail of Drunkenness. Our Crest is the Sun surmounted by a rose shining on a mossy bank and it means Luxury—Idleness inflamed by Passion and Pride well 'under the rose' of Secrecy. The motto is Spes-Hope; that we shan't be found out. Nay, son o' mine, thou hast this word to me, thou Hermes, soul flashing through the sanctuary of my love's temple that I might seek no son of flesh to shoulder that rotten old log.

These are my sons, 0 thou Imp of my Bottle, thou ounce of homunculus in my half-pint of Grand Marnier, the souls that my soul hath begotten, free souls of my soul's stock, of me in my god-passion, of me, truth naked who whirled my Word by music, or hurricane, my Word to the heart of my heart's desire, to the Woman I call mankind. I am Jove on the Titan to get god-men for my sons, though her burden dement her, her labour disrupt her, and her delivery destroy her. These are my sons, thou freak of the flesh that I loved, if they bear on their forehead for mind, on their breasts for passion, and in the palm of their right hands for deed, the Mark of the Beast. And this is my Mark that their minds shall be Light, holding each thought in its purity, and marrying one with another at the Altar of Truth. Then naked and equal let each on the other love lost give all that the Babe may be both and more also; Truth sealing itself. And this is my Mark that their passions shall be Love, and edged by fire and electric, a whirling and flying flame that shall suffer not aught that hath substance corporeal, but with most fervent heat consume all visible things, dissolve all grossness in candescence of spirit, and making matter infinite by might of infinite motion, marry these twain, and know itself there First-Begotten, Love that hath formulated his father and made fertile his mother.

And this shall be my Mark in the palms of their right hands, that their Deed shall be Liberty, for they shall do each man his Will, each function freely in its fitness fulfilling itself, each act the witness and the judge of its own won righteousness by that single and sufficient Law that hath one Word: Thelema. For even if one behold not his Way, should err, or if another, wearying of it lag, or if a third impatient of it, hasten, unto each one shall his own Will be mentor, to the first the bride, to the second the spur, and to the third the curb.

These be my sons, o thou that heedest not my speech, thou of mine oak the acorn that falling in soil too soft wast rooted by the blind Boar-Death! These, and not thou, are of me, sons of mine, o thou coy cuckoo in the sparrow's nest that took thine ease until the hawk espied thee! All they that bear my Word and do each one his Will, that turneth unto his own Way and keepeth it, that hath for his Law Liberty, and his work Love, love under will, he is my son, my soul's own, being a soul, nor can he perish, as thou!

Thou too wast quick, thou hadst a soul for a moment! From our own Lord it came hotfoot to do his bidding, and scarce a sandal unstrapped to hurry elsewhere. Thou then hast uttered thy Word, and done thy Will, o thou the mandrake tom from the garden of my Love.

The dawn breaks, my Love stirs and sighs; but thou, my mannikin, thou offal that the Harpies flung in my face, screaming in my brain and clawing my heart, cold carrion all my thanks for that one pearl beyond price that I had given to the Gods, thou stirrest not nor sighest. But thy soul sang ere it fled, ay, still it sings, thy soul, the Swan whose wings encompass the universe, it sings the song that hath but one word and that word ineffable!

Fly free, my daughter, and sing; fly free my son, and sing thou too! I know ye, why ye came and why ye are gone; and I was sleepy-souled to wish to hold you from your going of Gods!

In your gladness, I am glad; I gaze on heaven, and see ye not. But I have heard, and I, being God as ye are, must be about my goings. I may not cast my body away for awhile; my going is up and down upon the earth. I strip the gross garments and file the fetters from my brother gods; I break enchantments, making manifest things in their true shape: I waken Beauty that hath slept, and from the Oak in Broceliande I rescue Merlin's Wisdom, I ride Pegasus; my whip's of hide from the hippopotamus Hathor, so with fierce Love I lash him; my spurs I stole from Hermes and rowelled them with the teeth of Sekhet the tigress; so his flanks drip with most savage Wit, my saddle is of the same skin that covers the throne of Minos, so do I keep my seat on Justice. There needs no bridle or bit; Pegasus knoweth his Will. My lance is that strange tree whose name may not be spoken; the reed wherein Prometheus brought down fire, whereof Pan made his pipe, the rood whereon Gods suffer death, the rod that blossometh and becometh a serpent, striketh forth water from the rock, and maketh dead men live. This lance is the measure of Heaven and Earth and Hell; all things adore it and love it; all obey it and fear it; all seek it and if they find it, hide it; it hath the Flame-plumed Orb and the twin snakes of the Caduceus, as also the Pine-cone and Ivy tendrils of the Thyrsus; it is the Sceptre of Zeus, the Hammer of Thor, All Trees, all Hills, all fires, all Men that live uprightly, are its kin; nay all that seeketh Heaven or Hell, all things that are not of it lie before it prostrate.

It pierceth all, yet healeth every wound, giving its blood, and sealing Light in Darkness. It is so heavy that earth trembles under it; so light that a child's hand may lift it. It is so strong that the armed might of empires falls before it; so weak that a girl's breath may turn aside its thrust. So stout it is that time and Death have notched their scythes on it; so delicate, that one chance thought can crumble it. So much renowned is it, nigh all lay tongue to it, it is a thing common in vulgar mouths; yet also is it secret in such wise, that no man knoweth it for what it is, who doth so growing instantly to be a god; nor hath he name for it. I carved upon its shaft five words: Vir, Virtus, Veritas, Virus, Viridis; and six words more, but these I may not utter.

I graved three words upon its tip: Pan, Pam phage, Pangenetor; and eight words more I may not utter. I inlaid this one word in gold upon its grip: GN; and ten words more I may not utter.

Its Silence is a world of Song; its Death a world of life.

I seek to commune with it, invoking it by this name: Ego Ipse. Moreover, such is my Lance.

I belt me in the skin of the boar that slew Adonis studded with fangs of the asp that suckled Cleopatra. None but sleek Aphrodite fastened it about me, with the buckle wrought of the gold she earned with her first shame, what time I wrestled and threw Catullus at the court of Erato.

In this brace-belt my Sword is thrust. So fearful is this my sword I though I gird it dare hardly to speak of it. He forged it who forged first that flaming sword edged every way that drove out man from Eden, he, master-smith that tempered once Excalibur, and Roland's sword. He too it was that smelted the brave steel for Nothung, and ground the razor edge of Paracelsus' rapier. He hath a diamond wheel I dare not name; He grinds my edge; the sparks destroy the worlds. With this my sword have I slain many a god; there is no word nor thought that may withstand it.

But by my side my Love still gallops; she straddles the great Ass of her god, Priapus. She bears the Cup and Paten, that brimmed with blood, this crammed with flesh.

Then, to my work . . . . . . . . . . . . I go.

10.00 a.m. Thank Goodness that's over!

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