As Related by Wambly Bald

from

ON THE LEFT BANK: 1929-1933

Ohio University Press, 1987

(pages 32-33, 79-80 & 116-117)

Wednesday, 8 October 1930

Aleister Crowley sends a card which opens with: "Yes, indeed, but whither?" It concludes with the information: "I have something better than ideas."

To really know Crowley, read his Diary of a Drug Fiend. He knew all the combinations and was referred to as "666."

He used to parade around here with his head shaved save for the waxed forelock which Montparnassians called the "Mark of Buddha," and which he described as his "Cling-Clong." The stodgy man of 50 was frequently seen in kilties of plus fours.

He was said to have practiced black magic and addressed the devil by his first name. He boasted of his skill in sorcery, alchemy and hypnotism. Orgies were commonplace to him; he liked to create new fashions.

Oddly enough, some people believed in Crowley. They were fascinated by his flights of fancy. His bedroom, for instance, was surrounded by mirrors and this egotist could watch himself from seven angles while lying in bed.

Few people knew the source of his income, but some insisted that he received annually 300,000 francs from an estate in Scotland. His memoirs, bought out six months ago by the Manchester Press [Mandrake Press], are selling for ten dollars a copy.

Crowley had some talent as a painter. One of his best works was Three Men Carrying a Black Goat across the Snow to Nowhere, which also proves that he was a poet.

The French Government didn't like Crowley, and so they dismissed him about a year ago. He had plenty of color, but it was a bit too garish.

Tuesday, 3 November 1931

The bored are occasionally treated to a rumor that Aleister Crowley is back in Montparnasse. Then there is a thrill and new conversation.

These rumors are false and the notorious sorcerer has just sent us a letter to prove it. A couple of years ago he was asked to get out of the country, and since then a dozen sensational legends have reached a suggestible public, all of them more or less plausible and decidedly nutritious.

Possibly the best story was his interesting "suicide" in Portugal about nine months ago. On one bank of a raging whirlpool called "The Mouth of Hell" was found the following note signed by our former neighbor: "Your mouth was hotter than this," addressed obviously to a woman. After that he was reported to be in Hollywood, in Moscow and in Cicero. One story had him lecturing at Cornell on ethics and eugenics.

At any rate, Montparnasse cannot forget this romantic figure who used to stroll to the Dôme or the Coupole in kilties or plus fours, his entire head cleanly shaved save for a single waxed forelock described by himself as "the Mark of Buddha." Sometimes he called it his "Cling-Clong," and he was in the habit of dyeing it pink or saffron to explain his mood.

The author of The Diary of a Drug Fiend boasted of his skill in hypnotism and alchemy, an accomplishment that never fails to impress certain types of neurotic American women who feel themselves unfulfilled and suddenly discover a craving for a new content before surrendering to the inevitability of patient desolation.

Crowley was a cheerful individual who would say to all comers: "I am a practicing magician." At his studio parties he would turn on green lights, murmur a few incantations and then perform a series of feats that never failed to entertain. There was nothing like it anywhere else in Montparnasse. And there is the story of his eugenic colony in Sicily, where perfect children were being manufactured until Mussolini got tired of it and told him to go away. It seems that quality is seldom respected.

And yet the intelligent have always regarded Crowley as a man of creative imagination and genuine enthusiasm for a poetic revaluation of amusement. He is also a painter, and at present he is exhibiting his work in Berlin. He writes: "Let me know if you have anything on hand that might wish to sympathize with fallen grandeur." His best painting is called Three Men Carrying a Black Goat Across the Snow to Nowhere, an ambiguous title but a positive indication of a good poet.

Tuesday, 27 September 1932

Nina Hamnett, once a belle of Montparnasse, retired to England and wrote a book about it. Her revelations, Laughing Torso, was another one of those flamingo biographies.

She wrote something about Aleister Crowley. He didn't like it and is suing her. Aleister Crowley was shocked.

That brings back old memories. Crowley is author of  , and he knew all about alchemy. The only vegetation on his shaved head was a saffron forelock, called "Cling-Clong." He went in for green lights and incantations. He have grand rocking-parties, and he spoke of Black Magic and hypnotism as one speaks of the stock market—always with an air of uncertainty. He was a character of Montparnasse. He is the hero of many legends. Stories about him would fill a waste basket.

Crowley is also a lecturer in London. Last week he spoke at one of Foyle's literary luncheons at the Grosvenor House on the philosophy of magic (Magick).

He became famous a few years ago when he invented the Kubla Khan No. 2 cocktail. Now he is suing Nina.

Here is an extract from the book.

Nina visited Crowley's studio. He greeted her, walked away calmly and immediately fell asleep. "He was lying on the hearthrug in front of the fire asleep. He woke up, stared at me and said, 'Are you alone?' I said 'Yes,' and he lay down and went to sleep again."

Perhaps Nina should sue Crowley.