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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Tuesday, 5 July 1921
A good night. Story in dream—some traces of morphine last night.
7.10. A.M. The Basilisk. A young man is breakfasting with 2 friends in his rooms at Cambridge, out of College. He seems out of spirits and does not crack his second hard boiled egg. His friends rally him on his indisposition, but catch his depression and get out. He tries to work, but cannot. The landlady's daughter comes to clear away. He tells her not to remove the egg as he will eat it later. His mind becomes more restless and disturbed than ever. There is something queer in the atmosphere. The door opens and a very polite but sinister man enters. He apologizes, introducing himself as a one-time occupier of the rooms. The present tenant recognizes the name as that of a famous Magician. The visitor says that he fancies he must have left a book in the room. He describes the book as very interesting and wonderful, and asks the newcomer if he has found it. The boy denies all knowledge of it. The man says, "Perhaps you didn't know where to look", and thrusts his arm to the elbow into the wall. The boy screams with surprise. The man takes out of the wall, an old thin vellum book. He shows it to the boy; it opens by chance at the description of The Basilisk. The boy reads with horror. The atmosphere of the room is getting stranger all the time. The man withdraws with his book. The boy becomes more miserable all the time—there is a very queer smell. Presently his attention is drawn to his uneaten egg and he feels constrained to handle it. He takes it up—it feels as tho it were alive. He drops it—it cracks—and hatches a Basilisk. Ask Maitland [Cecil Maitland] to finish the story.
4.44 P.M. Wrote Aimée [Aimée Gouraud] about our collaboration in her "Indian stories" and suggesting her Autobiography. Symbol for this plan. [I Ching Hexagram] Luna of P[hallus] Hsu. "Waiting". One must not hurry or be anxious, or be put off by the 'mud and blood' of the work itself. The end will be prosperity; for though this be threatened, unexpected assistance comes unasked and straightens out the tangle. The work itself is (of course) a restriction of my Creative Impulse, and I may find it hard to set my face as a flint toward Tunis. I must maintain constantly the purpose of performing the task.
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