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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Sunday, 6 January 1924
Die Sol.
9.0 P.M. In bed after a totally stupid day. I cannot measure or describe my ache—and the joke is that no sooner do I take pencil in hand to try to do so than I find myself perfectly happy! (Once more, I see that activity is the sole issue,)
As I thought in my teens, [Jean] Racine[1] is banal to the point of imbecility. I cannot find words for his stupid flatulence—and I can’t understand how any human being ever tolerated him. All the characters talk alike—the same empty declamation of platitudes. They all talk at the top of their voices: there is no shading-off of any kind—“when the they are good they are very good indeed and when they are bad they are horrid”.
1—Jean Racine (1639-1699) was a French dramatist, one of the three great playwrights of 17th-century France, and an important figure in the Western tradition.
[On other side of page:] Monday agenda: Stewart Ass[ociated] Press “Ulysses” gang N.Y. Times 3 rue de Frenelle. V.F. 21 years among the Artists. Queer Meals. Weird Drinks.
An eminent author named Flaubert Had less hair on his head than a snow bear The hair on this chin Was straggly and thin
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