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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Wednesday, 14 November 1923
Hail unto Kephra!
1.15 a.m Nothing must ever be added to AL or my Comment; nor must it be discussed at all after my death. These writings are to be held sacred and secret by each man (and woman)—a Word to his own heart. No other has a right to interfere—No matter with what good intentions.
1.40 a.m.
I went to call on William Blake, And found him scrapping with Isaiah; Ezekiel busy cutting cake, And tea was poured by Obadiah. Moses was eating buttered toast, And Paul was punishing the crumpets. They talked about the Holy Ghost, And how to act towards our dumb pets. Blake offered me the caviar, And asked me what I thought of Browning. He gave me an immense cigar, And showed me how to save the drowning. Such hospitality as his I wish I meet more often in this Unsociable old galaxy's Worst planet—what a labyrinth is Life at its best! I'd go on strike If only for example's sake If it were not for people like My good friend Mr. William Blake.
I went to tea with Algernon Charles Swinburne who was drinking brandy Out of a bucket: so was John Ruskin, and sucking sugar-candy. Rosetti used a long stout straw To soak up whisky by the gallon: While Herbert Spencer sang the Law Of Evolution with Grant Allen As a duet with Sullivan Had just composed that day at lunch The 3 of them were black and tan With boosing Maraschine Punch My host made haste to open for me A bottle of his best old Pernod I drank it off—its virtues bore me Into the heart of their Inferno By Atalanta, I observed I'd rather like to know (as I'm a sinner!) If this is tea, we should be nerved To have a jolly time at dinner. De Qunicey wired me to drop in To lunch with Edgar Allan Poe. It would have been a shame and sin To meet such kindness with a No. They hoped to stir the drowsy God in 'em
By filling themselves up with laudanum The lunch qua lunch—was not perhaps A gastronomical success For all there was to eat was scraps Of yesterday’s neglected mess But oh! The jars of opium, And oh! The company—yum yum! Coleridge was sprawling on a mat Fighting the bamboo to a finish While Baudelaire [Charles Baudelaire]—in high silk hat And boots constructed to diminish The size of his flat feet was assish Enough to swallow pounds of hashish De Maupassant produced a stench Abominably vile with ether; And Wilkie Collins brought a wench Who thought all alcohol beneath her: So all through lunch, to my surprise, They shot more morphine in their thighs. Between the courses Nietzsche took Pinch after pinch of heroin So regular it made him look Less like a man than a machine. I reckoned that he might put away At least a kilogramme a day. I found myself most warmly greeted By Poe, who told me that my brain Would find its genius completed By several ounces of cocaine; And like a veritable prince, he Borrowed the bottle from de Quincey. They introduced me to their friends Like France Thompson, Ernest Dowson, Who bolted pills of diverse blends Of dope—we nearly set the house on Fire, for the curry William Sharp ate Was hot enough to burn the carpet. Others again wolfed belladonna, Chewed mescal buttons, smoked stramonium: I murmured to Augustus John a Remark about the Pandemonium. He hadn’t had so wild a day Since leaving the Y.M.C.A.!
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