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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Monday, 20 February 1922
12.20 A.M. I am making a regular St. Patrick’s Night of it. Throat trouble with phlegm standing like the Old Guard and fever, insomnia, etc. on top; my mind surging with phantasms of projects of various sorts—persistent, but without alacrity or ability to hold my interest. There is no definite drug-hunger; but I suspect my quite undeniable symptoms to be in reality so many "legal arguments" of the body, too cunning to complain frankly what it wants.
1.11 A.M. Nothing for it but a Dial Cina once more.
2 A.M. One spasm follows another each ending in complete exhaustion. I have tried inhaling eau-de-cologne: no good. I will make one last stand at Fort Vaux.
2.31. Useless sacrifice of human life. Retire on second line. Ils ne passeront pas.
1 plus. Small. Relief very slight.
2 plus. 2.36. Medium. almost calm.
3 plus. 2.45. Medium
I could almost certainly have cut short the attack with less trouble if I had not let it go so far. I am "all in" from exhaustion—every muscle aching from the strain—breath still quick and laboured—traces of 'phlegm-ball' still in throat.
3.7. Practically "all better" though frightfully tired. A noticeable phenomena is a keen ambition to write a play in French verse! (Suggested, probably, by picking up my pocket Tartuffe).
3.18. I shall consider myself provisionally as having "borrowed" the three doses due today, and pay them back if practicable by total abstention till Tuesday 2.30 PM. I think also I shall go to Paris on Tuesday and ask Dr. E[dmund] C[ros] how best to combat these emergency attacks; it should be worth while now that I know more or less what to expect.
5.2. Awoke with access of spasms more violent than before. As soon as I get respite enough to control my muscles at all.
4 plus. Med. I have been asleep dreaming voluptuously and planning various projects in my puppet show.
5 plus. 5.11. Med. Also I have been sweating violently.
6 plus. 5.23. Still in the woods. Small.
9.0 A.M. Woke very succinctly, my chest still raw and distressed, but a Voice in my ears, clear as ever came to me in my life and apropos of nothing: NOTJ2JP.
Now the Yi had indicated this before and I found excuses to dodge it. I don’t like the idea even now since fully awake. But I have cleared up the Fontainebleau formula about Poupée, I think, with Mark Twain’s story "The Fine Hours of Life" (?) and NOTJ2JP means twitching my mantle blue. "Weep no more, gentle shepherd, weep no more," offers the best possible conditions for the rest of my cure, including the IX° — XI° remedy and is in all ways rationally indicated. With my habitual prudence, ask Thelema for an oracle. I get VIII I.53. The applicability of the passage may or may not be discernible by those who are not initiates of the VI° of O.T.O. It may involve my death, as "an enchantment to unbind the bound."
9.36. I am a little calmer, now I am sitting up in bed. By the way, I had a strong "hunch" last night to play a libel action against Arnold Bennett for the "Paris Nights" reference, worked out in a friendly spirit to gain publicity. On this point Thelema says CCXX I.50 end of verse. Doubtful: the suggestion seems to be no to let Bennett know what is going on.
Mad with Leah [Leah Hirsig] for not having written. Went out about 10 and started for forest before 11. Shored away from golf course. Exhausted by night’s struggle; much residual cough and soreness as well as fatigue. A fine day and a fresh, cool invigorating wind; but I could hardly drag one leg after the other—I make no apology for 7 plus. 1.04 P.M. Medium.
8 plus. 1.21 P.M. Medium.
9 plus. 1.36 P.M. Medium.
10 plus. 1:58 P.M. Small. Crawled in, still weak, about 2.30 P.M.
11 plus. 3.22 P.M. etc. Wire and letters from Leah.
3.40. Eyes keep closing with sleep.
5.0 P.M. A nap, interrupted by a fool bell, and the waking hideous with a bronchial clinch. I have no shame in going for it at once with our old friend cocaine—partly as a change from the heroin, and partly because it seems possible that it will touch the spot better. The first small sniff does indeed seem to clear the matter up remarkably; but I will go and see if the chemist can find me some balm in Gilead.
1.2 Double plus. Two small Cocaines. Note that in all this business there has not been the slightest conscious "hunger and thirst for righteousness' sake" but sheer physical distress, and believe me kid I know my ———— from my elbow by this time.
Wrote Nordmann (Paris Observatory) by the way, about Einstein.
The two little Cocaine sniffs have removed the lumps from my chest and throat for the first time in 15 hours or so. The sinister circumstance is that this is "just a week today since my Coco went away and its all up with poor Tommy now!" I shall put the case before Cros fully and meanwhile run along and ask the chemist if he can suggest some patent pulmonary purgative and promise me a purple plenitude of serene slumber, stainless of bronchial trouble, immune from the perfidious and prostrating pangs of intercostal inhibitions, of respiratory reluctances, the bane of bronchial burdens, the curse of my cantankerous chest, (and please observe how instantaneously the cocaine settles itself in my style. The last few phrases—redundant rubbish—flagged. Normally, I should have diagnosed that another dose was due, and loaded some more alliterations and parenthesis on my ———— back!)
5.24. I do take a third; but that is only to complete the exodus to Boulevard Beulah) from the Impasse Inferno. (Note. corrections and cross corrections, pauses, and . . .)
5.28. The Third Coco.
Interesting to note that just 23 years ago—early in ‘99 I was saving Allan Bennett from his cycle of asthma, Opium, Morphine, Cocaine, Chloroform, Exhaustion, Asthma—recurring. (it took from 1 to 2 months to make the round trip) by sending him out to Ceylon. Perhaps I made some good Karma when I saved my master’s life (at the risk of my own as it happened) perhaps some one I never thought of may be on the way to save mine.
4 [Cocaine] Double plus. 5:35. To cap the pyramid.
8.38 PM. I had a long delightful talk with a charming little chemist, bought some iodine to paint my chest and some ether in case of a bad night, played a little billiards, read some more Nordmann, drank some hot milk, ate a small piece of bread, wrote Nordmann a P.S. to plead my sanity—and took several 5+ more sniffs of cocaine and one of heroin!
I did this dire deed quite deliberately. I seemed not worth while to minimize my "fall from grace" but to treat the situation frankly, get myself into a state of mind and body such that I could look at it from the outside. Attempts to alternate the assassination and trammel up his consequence would have been pitiful, inviting insincerity. My plan is to begin again tomorrow, with the week’s experience to guide me as to what is wise. It is clear, for instance, that I can cut out the cocaine completely without fear of being distressed and that I can start with a two-hour spell of 4 doses of heroin; having this advantage, too, that I can make Reveille my time of waking which well ensure early rising.
I am quite satisfied with strychnine to avert collapse and to control craving. I am confident of my ability to adjust the hours of "indulgence" cleverly enough to keep the "Storm-fiend" from the door. I can rely on quinine in case of fever. My one weak spot is the original emphysema-asthma-bronchitis; and I must find a sure fortress against their ferocity, which was solely responsible for the present "regrettable incident." E—— G—— will probably be able to help there; and I dare say my own iodine and other defences may turn out impregnable. I am quite contented with my week’s work, and proud that all moral attacks were detected and defeated. My sole uneasiness is as to whether the severe physical assault had not a Freudian basis. To that suggestion I reply with some conviction that fever and vomiting were natural effects of the general strain ( as I have seen often in past years) and that last night may well be set down to my imbecile conduct in sitting on a damp log in an incipient drizzle after a long cold walk in a heavy sweater to watch thirty "mudded oafs".
I blame myself, however, for carelessness in (a) observing my physiological state in several obvious ways (b) keeping the rules of hygiene and therapy, even those formally laid down in this record (c) forcing myself to follow the prescribed course when unwise, e.g. getting up and going out with a fever on me.
I am pleased with the frankness and conscientiousness of this record; I think it is full and free from all self-deception, stupidity, or cowardice. I think it assesses justly the dangers, difficulties, and determination which apply to the case. I feel that it has helped me, and will help others to audit accounts; and I am sure that the week’s trading shows a good profit, judged either by the figures themselves or by my demeanor and appearance. Unfortunately there are no figures for the week previous, but my memory is quite clear that I have been taking heroin continuously for many weeks: three or four doses to help me get up and others practically all day at short intervals. As to Cocaine, I must have had at least two or three prolonged bouts of it every week, plus a few "hairs of the dog" on most of the "off days". Most of my mental and moral powers were seriously affected in various ways while I was almost wholly dependent on them for physical energy, in particular for sexual force, which only appeared after unusual excesses, complicated by abnormal indulgence in alcohol. My creative life had become spasmodic and factitious. I could not even take interest in any kind of work; what I did was forced, feeble and ill sustained, dependent on drastic drugging even at that. I could not even face the task of dictating important letters, and shrank from contact with business of all kinds. I could take no pleasure even in eating or drinking except when I was more savagely spurred by the stimulants than usual. I had become incapable of all human reactions, from love and self respect to hatred and self-preservation. I avoided washing, dressing, shaving, as much as possible. I was unable to count money properly, to inspect bills, and so on; everything bored me. I could not even feel alarm at obviously serious symptoms. My memory, though reliable, was very dull. I refused to make any efforts.
It strikes me as astonishing that so complete a cachexia as this should not have been accompanied by the slightest psychical disturbance! I had no trace of hallucination or persecution-mania, no tendency to duplicity or concealment, no delusions or defects of judgment; not one (in short) of the classical psychoses which occur normally in cases far less grave in other ways than mine. This is especially strange, in view of the fact that I had been subjected to extreme mental worry of many kinds for many months, and that I had lost entirely the faculty of sleep, which ensued only on (a) extreme exhaustion, say after fifteen hours painting and dictation, followed by perhaps 6 hours sexual frenzy (b) hypnotics such as veronal, reinforced by desperate determination to sleep, or (c) heroic doses of strong alcoholic drinks, absinthe, brandy, or hot rum.
Yet I have not even had so much as one unpleasant dream. The only suspicious symptom has been occasional feelings of irritation, disproportionate to the exciting cause, and of undue anxiety to avoid allusions to subjects liable to annoy me.
That I should have been able to get back so nearly to normal good health—on all planes—in a single week: this seems to me almost miraculous, by the sombre standards of the text-books on drug neuroses.
10.40 P.M. The above entry is a fair sample of what I can do when thoroughly drunk on a mixture of heroin and cocaine. But it should be compared with a similar effort last month. Tonight I am clear, calm; not too verbose, redundant, detailed or frenetic. The basis of the entry is mental and moral health. I write what I want to write, without excitement or effort. The drugs merely inhibit my inhibitions. On previous occasions, one may observe an insane intensity, an impatient fury. There is a delirious outburst, and I am enraged at my slowness and my lack of mastery. Tonight there is none of this. I feel myself in full control of my faculties. Also there is no impulse to appeal to the drugs to "drive like the devil". I no longer crave to push on from one piece of work to another. Before, I have "speeded up" Pegasus, though I have had no idea where I want to go. The result has often been that I have often spent a furious night with the Hounds of Hell, hunting some horrible hyena in the dark across the sterile sands; I have finished the work for the sake of which I started drugging myself, and gone on with some quite useless stuff like "Limericks" or some shapeless, idea-less ranting rimes of obscure and obscene turgidity. Mine inmost identity says: "To worship me take wine and strange drugs whereof I will tell my prophet and be drunk thereof:" it is lawful to do this, for to worship Him is to make Him manifest, and so to fill the world with Truth and Beauty. But I have erred in going too far; the worship has become forced, and fallen into fanatical frenzy which blasphemes Him. He bids us also to "exceed by delicacy" to "drink by the eight-and-ninety rules of art"; but I have succeeded by depravity and drunk by the three hundred and thirty three rules of the toper. He gives His guarantee that this wine, these drugs, "will not harm" me; but the condition is obviously that expressed above. I must justify Him (and myself) by making myself unchallengably master of these "means of grace". I must be as capable of using them, and as confident in my capacity, as an engineer is of handling high explosives; and every piece of work undertaken with the aid of these tools, must prove by its perfection that His precepts and His promises are wrought of Righteousness and tested by Truth.
In the past, despite my errors and excesses, these Orgia have brought me beyond all previous human attainments; and I must not fear to follow the flag and fight the good fight with all my might. But I must not get an arrow in my eye, like Harold at Hastings, and so lose control of my English that they break out of their lines, drunken with victory, fall into disorder, and perish beneath the lances of the invaders.
For the present, then, I must pursue my plan of suppressing the use of drugs altogether. That duly done, I must lay down those "eight and ninety rules of art", and keep them. I must be able to use heroin and cocaine as adequately and austerely as Rembrandt used his paints. One should not smear a nocturne with Rose Madder because one likes the colour!
In practice, then, I go to bed instead of continuing this persistent prating.
11.53 P.M. So yes proclaim altogether! (I will NOT disgrace this record by giving it the title "Hero versus Heroin").
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