Aleister Crowley Diary Entry

Tuesday, 26 July 1921

1.5 A.M. I have written a long letter to the child of my bowels, 777 [Charles Stansfeld Jones]. I put the honour of the A∴A∴ as to money in his hands by enclosing to him my letters to Mrs. [Mathilde C.] Ford and the Chicago Tribune. I warn him about his slackness in discipline and Qabalah and the envious rancour of F.T. Lodge [Frank T. Lodge].

1.55 A.M. I have been revising the "Mark of the Beast" ritual, but am not wholly satisfied. The doxology. "Glory be to the Phallus, and to the Sun, and to the Great Wild Beast; as it was etc."

I want to write a poem proclaiming the Confessions of every Star-Soul.

Nuith! whose Body is Space

And the infinite Stars thereof,

I set the flame of my face

To seek Thy laughter of Love;

I race to Thine eager embrace

Nuith! Thy Star! I surrender

My soul to Thy splendour.

Hadit! abiding intense

In every Shrine, I am now

And here nor spirit nor sense

But wholly and utterly thou

By Thy virile violence,

Hadit! by the whirling wonder

That brake my being asunder!

Ra-Hoor-Khuit! I adore Thee

Thou crowned, thou conquering Child

Nuith to Hadith that bore Thee

Of Force and Fire in the wild

World, Death dancing before Thee

Ra-Hoor-Khuit, Life leaping after

With Lust and with Laughter!

Aiwaz! angel of awe,

Thy sword, plunged sheer to the hilt

In the world's heart, flashed Thy Law

Terrible: Do what thou wilt.

I leapt up free as I saw,

Aiwaz, Thy Light, and heard

The Truth, Thy Word!

Hail to the Great Wild Beast.

The man that mastered the hour;

Hail to him, passionate priest,

Who uttered that word of power,

Calling the vultures to feast

The carcase Christ to devour!

Thou Great Wild Beast, Io Paean!

Thou Word made Flesh of the Aeon

 Babalon! leering and swaying

Shrunkenly slack on the saddle,

His strumpet of scarlet, braying

Thy blasphemies, naked astraddle

Thy Beast, sang Thou of the slaying,

Babalon, of the Saints, and the spilth

In Thy cup, of folly and filth!

Whores of The Beast, all hail!

Hail, from the first, his wife

Rose the sot to the Stale

Strumpet that brought to life

His son, to Leah whose Grail

Whores of the Beast, brims with thicker

With lewder and bloodier liquor!

Parsival, hail! From the cave

Of the harlot hypocrisy-plastered

Hilarion, whose gluttony gave

Her bed to the Beast did the bastard

Come forth the Pure Fool. Thou shalt save,

Parsival, the whole world from its blindness,

By simplicity, courage, and kindness!

Ye God-men, ye stars of Nuith,

In your orbits that revel and roll,

The Law of Thelema is sweet

And strong to the swing of the soul.

With the Word of The Beast do I greet

God-men, He hath freed of fatality,

Aware what ye are in reality!

5.18 A.M. This is not quite the hymn I meant. I want a short lilting epigrammatic line, with simple rimes.

Nuith! Hadith!

Ra-Hoor-Khuit!

I hail Thee, Queen

Of Space unseen

And the infinite

Stars of it.

I hail Thee, heart

Of all that art,

Thou secret source

Of every force.

There is no spot

Where thou art not,

Thou, unextended,

In bliss art blended,

With Her One Space

In every place

At every time,

That love sublime

With every act

Creates a fact.

Each separate stress

Serves Truth to express,

Some element

Of its extent

A some new star

All things that are

Themselves, that know

Themselves, forthshow

One facet of

The diamond Love,

Express their norm—

How infinite form

Its Bodiless

Blank Nothingness

May find and fit

With Infinite

And Formless Being,

Each act agreeing

To its projection

In imperfection

Ra-Hoor-Khuit!

With huge hard beat

That most intense

Vast vivid sense

And spirit of

The hoarded love

Of Space and Seed

Devised the Deed

That brought Thee forth

Thou ravener of Wrath

And Vengeance! Wild

And Wanton Child

Delighting Thee

In cruelty

And lust! Thou Son

Of All and None

Of Horror, hurled

Through Heaven in ravage!

Spew spouts of savage

Spume of lust—

Thy nature must!

Art thou then God?

This period

Of earth Thine aeon?

Cannon thy paean,

Murder Thy pleasure,

Madness the measure

Of virtue, want

Thy nourishment?

Thy strange High Priest

The Great Wild Beast,

Lion and Snake

As he is, may make

Mirth of his dupes

Before he swoops

To gulp us raw.

"Love is the Law,

Love under will"

He smiles, and still

Some slaver drips

From his lewd lips—

I care not: Thou

Art master now, Child conquering

And crowned, our King

Our ruler still

Whether we will

Or no. Yea, more

I choose to adore

This God of Force

And Fire; my course

Is His; unjust

Pitiless lust.

I shall not swerve

His soul to serve,

For in my lust

Of sin I trust

Truth.  Mine own heart

Is art and part

Of Nature; she

Can never be

(Though doubt may dream)

In Truth's supreme

Analysis

In aught amiss.

I rise to greet

Ra-Hoor-Khuit!

Aiwaz! I heard

Thy wonder-word

Upon the earth

Whose name is worth

Will; and thereunder

Love; and that thunder

Of speech that seals

The lightning deed

That sows the seed

Of Life and Breath

In the soil of death:

And that most vast

The first and last

All-comprehending,

Without ending

Or beginning.

All the spinning,

Of the curse,

The Universe

—Wiser, wider

Than its Spider!

8.0. A.M. I will NOT go on with this damned thing; and I am more certain than ever that cocaine is no good under any conditions unless in very small doses and very few of them. This "prolonging the agony" simply transforms me into a dull prosy prolix word-cobbler. It was good up to 1.5 A.M., I having stopped cocaine at 12; and not having taken it at all regularly though I started about 4 P.M. I should have stopped dead with fuck. But the fascination—a quite unreasonable thing—keeps me going back to it; even now I want a sniff, though I'm simply angry that I ever started. Shit!

Slacking.

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