Jane Wolfe Diary Entry

Saturday, 9 April 1921

 

     

 

A.M.

 

 

5:45

 

Try Yoga. Unable.

 

15’ Pranayama.

 

[1]

At Abbey all morning, discussing funds. How much better in the essential matters of life to be absolutely straightforward, frank, simple? Suppose it does cost an effort? Is not all life an effort, and must not an occultist face everything?

 

 

I saw Fuller [J.F.C. Fuller] pictured in “Star in the West”. The face startled me, and I am curious. Have I known him before? Should like to meet him. A “female soul in a masculine body”.[2]

 

Cabled M.K.W. [Mary K. Wolfe]

 

 

 

P.M.

 

Letter to Marion Marshall re funds.

 

Some generalizations, in an attempt to understand myself, for I have never confronted me. I feel and I don’t feel. Somehow I managed a long time ago to bottle up, to chain in the cellar, or to muzzle, that part of me that feels, and have lived—where? I don’t really know.

 

I have had a talk with Genesthai [C. F. Russell] regarding the Tree of Life and I said “Good God!”

 

As for the reason, I shall “hold back” as Lea [Leah Hirsig] said I did. Thoughts are things, the fewer the better. Some day I shall add a P.S. to this entry.

 

Test entry.

For a long time I have felt Shummy [Ninette Shumway] will always be in my present life—if not in immediate personal contact, at least by post or other means. I shall always know her whereabouts.

 

Genesthai once my son, and shall be again.

4:55

 

Have just realized that once I yielded myself completely. My terror in May, 1918, when after many efforts attempting catalepsy, I collapsed, gave up all, and said: “I am afraid”.

 

 

Comment(s) by Aleister Crowley

1—Yes, it is. He must. But so many "occultists" being thieves, I feel I must guard the honour of the whole Tradition by keeping my hands more than clean—antiseptic. So I am as sensitive as a gentleman playing cards or a 'liver', who won't play for money though he does so in his club. I'm 'ashamed' even to sell my books, even at less than the cost of production. To talk "business" at all is to me a sort of immodesty. I feel like a king obliged to pawn his watch, or like a 'fine' woman asking a friend for a loan, in agony lest he should think she was offering her 'virtue'. Equally, if the friend knows without doubt why I want the money, I am ready to prostitute myself not only shamelessly, but proudly, glad to prove my love for my Work by love's greatest motivation—personal degradation!

2—Not a bit.

 

 

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