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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Saturday, 15 March 1924
die Saturn.
2.30 A.M. Hail unto Khephra!
Slept till 12.30 A.M. woke and read till now. The solitude is wearing me down. I knew what I was doing when I sent O.P.V. to London: what else could I do to save Cefalu? It may all be useless, and I may go under; but I have done all I could.
8.40 P.M. Awake all night. Bernard Harrison called about 11.30 a.m. Slept from 1.30 p.m. to 7.40 p.m. (Better really, I suppose, being a longer stretch than usual, despite the awkward hours. It would be imbecile to try to force a fresh sleep by drugs: I'll watch and pray all night again if needs be.
Note. the word 'verre' is rather like a rattlesnake. (1) It is deceptive, being masculine despite feminine-sounding ending e.g. une serre, la terre. (2) the roll of the 'r r' suggests a rattle at the finish (3) The rattle of the snake resembles the clatter of glasses? The above is a very good example of an 'insane identification'. The man who thinks he is a tea-pot has probably just some such simple train of thought. This suggests a possible line of treatment. Get the patient to explain why he thinks what he does. Then reply by a similar train of thought to prove to him that his 'truth' is only part of the truth. This should at least start him on the road to a new synthesis—which is what is wanted. (Of course, this does not consider definite brain lesions, beyond Nature to repair given good conditions otherwise.) This, indeed, is the mark of my own trouble. I am reading, for instance (Cf. M. G. Lewis "The Monk") which Anatole France at his best might have made a masterpiece, and which he treats à la "Mon oncle Benjamin"—a shade above the vulgarest comic weekly. I find in the book such treasures of wit, pathos, tragedy --- nothing like it in Shakespeare. Philosophy, too! "Avant de critiques les ordères, faut savoir ce que donnera la manoeuvre: nous jugeons trop vite les hommes et les evenements st souvent nous sommes obliges de reconnaitre par la suite que le plan dont nous ne pensions rien de bon a donné d'excellents resultats". Again: "cet admirable courage qui consite à faire semblant d'esperer" The very thing for which O.P.V. reproaches me daily. Hell! I almost begin to wonder if I have not a grain of courage somewhere after all!
The cardinal's one question to the cure: Êtes-vous sincère? reveals an astounding knowledge of psychology. The cure hadn't the faintest idea that ge was not. The old count's remark "Jadis ce n'était pour nous qu'une vielle baraque sans importance. Maintenant c'est notre maison". Euripedes could not have condensed years of tragedy so terribly and simply.
But there are only odds and ends: the work of Art is the whole in which all these things have their right place. I do really understand how to write a novel now; and, given the inspiration of a good plot, and the condition of writing, I could produce the waited Wonder. For, despite my present sickness of analysis-itis, I have by nature the constructive faculty. All my work has been smooth to the eye, bar an occasional "Mr. Todd" where I simply did not take the pains to weave Death into the story of Life. (E.g. I actually fooled T. W. Earp [Tommy Earp] with the Drug Fiend [Diary of a Drug Fiend]; he thought it a Philips Oppenheim novel!) The condition, therefore, of my doing really great work is ample meditation, right selection of material, deft craftsmanship. I can be sure of the superficial artifice.—oh well! one can be sure of nothing. And in contrast to Earp, there was a dullard (in S. Africa, it is true) who found the Drug-Fiend dull! I think though I had better write a book where will be no incongruity between my true spirit and the environment (Of course, the thing to hope for is poetic inspiration. That is the trouble with the D[rug]-F[iend]: it is, in fact, a sort of up-to-date Zastrozzi.
9.50 P.M. Never judge people by their letters. A letter is the momentary reaction of a fraction of a man's character to some particular circumstance—even when it is not deliberately conceived to mislead.
[Two pages have been torn from the diary at this point.]
10.10 P.M. Wrote No. 12 S.M.F. [Sick Man's Fancies].
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