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Dr. Jules Jacot-Guillarmod Diary Entry Saturday, 19 July 1902
All of the bitterness crystallizes. For a doctor, awakened every night by his patients, this is his torture—all the more so when I share the tent with the worst among them, Aleister Crowley. On July 19, I can't take it anymore, and in my diary I write about this unbearable companion: In the morning, after he has finished his natural necessities in nature, without caring much about how he wets or splashes around, he starts to grab the best cookies and eat them noisily; since he breathes with difficulty, I let him hear a kind of grunting while chewing, which must make it easier for him to breathe; if I make a remark to him, he pays me back at the slightest noise on my part. He has all the bad manners of an ill-bred child. Without caring whether I sleep or not, he shakes the snow from the tent, lights a pipe and smokes it noisily. In the evening it is even worse when he has trouble falling asleep—usually on inactive days: he turns it around and moans miserably, lighting candles and pipes, filling the tent with thick and biting smoke.
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