The Greatest Works of Aleister Crowley. Aleister Crowley

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СКАЧАТЬ came out all right. I slept on the seat of the car. I had a dreadful nightmare, and woke sweating all over. Then I went to sleep again. I was with six angels who carried me through the air to a place which I mustn't describe. It is a great and wonderful mystery.

      It is awful and miraculously wonderful to be the woman clothed with the sun. The sublimity of it would have frightened me only a few weeks ago. I have been gently and wisely prepared for my exalted position.

      This vision initiated me into the most marvellous secrets.

      When I woke Keletiel came and told me that the crisis was over. I was shivering with cold, and went into the house for some heroin. That's the only thing that keeps one warm however hot the weather is. This is because what keeps the body warm is the rush of animal life, and when one has got to the stage where one becomes wholly spiritual, the body becomes cold like a corpse....

      A dreadful thing has happened. We have used up all the heroin, and there is hardly any cocaine. I remembered what I had sewn away in my white frock, and went to get it. It was on the floor in a comer of the drawing-room.

      It was all shrunk and rumpled and dirty, and it was still quite wet. I suppose I must have gone a long walk in the rain, though I don't remember anything about it.

      All the heroin was washed away. There wasn't a grain left. Peter came in and found me crying. He understood at once what had happened. All he said was :

      " You'll have to go back to McCall."

      I couldn't even be angry. Men are too grossly animal to understand. How could I do such a thing, seeing who I was ?

      He wanted some H. badly; finding it gone, made him want it insanely.

      He took one of the packets and began to chew it. " Thank God," he said, " it's quite bitter. There must be a lot in the dress."

      I was shivering and faint. I got another packet, and put it in my mouth. He went wild and clutched me by the hair, and forced open my jaws with his fingerandthumb. I struggled and kicked and scratched; but he was too strong. He got it out and put it in his own mouth. Then he hit me in the face as I sat. I went flat and limp, and began to howl. He picked up the dress and the packets, and started to go. I caught at his ankles desperately; but he kicked himself free, and went out of the room with the dress.

      I was too weak and hurt to go after him, and my nose was bleeding.

      But I had got some H., and I remembered who I was. This was all part of the ordeal. At any moment I might manifest my glory, and he would fall down at my feet and worship me. After all, he has a wonderful destiny himself ; like St. Joseph-or else perhaps he may be the Dragon that will try to destroy me and the Messiah.

      In my position the actual H. isn't really necessary any more than food is. The spiritual idea is sufficient. That I suppose is the lesson I had to learn. I had been relying on the stuff itself. It says in the Bible " Angels came and ministered unto him." My angels will bring me the manna that cometh down from heaven.

      I am perfectly happy. It is sublime not to be dependent any more on earthly things. Keletiel came and told me to go and prophesy to Peter, so I will hide away the diary. I must think of a new place every time, else Peter will find out where I keep it, or the old man may be hunting around in his astral body and take it away. I have been very careful what I wrote ; but he might discover some of the secrets and ruin everything.

      There's another trouble. I can only remember spiritual things clearly. The material world is fading out. It would be disaster if I forgot where I hid it.

      Basil would never forgive me.

      I will hide it in the chimney, then I can always look up where I put it....

      What is dreadful is the length of time. With H. or C. or both, there is never a dull moment ; without them the hours, the very minutes, drag. It's difficult to read or write. My eyes won't focus properly. They have been open to the spiritual world, they can't see anything else. It's hard, too, to control the hands. I can't form the letters properly.

      This waiting is hellish. Waiting for something to happen! I can think of nothing but H. Everything in the body is wrong. It aches intolerably. Even a single dose would put everything right.

      It makes me forget who I am, and the wonderful work to be done. I have become quite blind to the spiritual world. Keletiel never comes. I must wait, wait, wait for the Holy Spirit; but that's a memory so far, far off !

      There are times when I almost doubt it, yet my faith is the only thing that prevents my going insane. I can't endure without H.

      The sympathy of suffering has brought Peter closer. We lie about and look at each other ; but we can't touch, the skin is too painful. We are both restless as it is impossible to describe. It irritates us to see each other like this, and we can't do anything ; we constantly get up with the idea of doing something, but we sit down again immediately. Then we can't sit, we have to lie down. But lying down doesn't rest us; it irritates us more, so we get up again, and so on for ever. One can't smoke a cigarette ; after two or three puffs it drops from one's fingers. The only respite I have is this diary. It relieves me to write of my sufferings; and besides, it is important for the spiritual life. Basil must have the record to read.

      I can't remember dates, though. I don't even know what year it is. The leaves in the park tell me it is autumn, and the nights are getting longer. The night is better than the day ; there is less to irritate. We don't sleep, of course, we fall into a torpor. Basil told me about it once. He called it the dark night of the soul. One has to go through it on the way to the Great Light.

      The light of day is torture. Every sense is an instrument of the most devilish pain. There is no flesh on our bones.

      This perpetual craving for H ! Our minds are utterly empty of everything else. Rushing into the void come tumbling the words of that abominable poem:

      " A bitten and burning snake Striking its venom within it, As if it might serve to slake

       The pain for the tithe of a minute."

      It is like vitriol being thrown in one's face. We have no expression of our own. We cannot think. The need is filled by these words....

      The impact of light itself is a bodily pain.

      " When the sun is a living devil Vomiting vats of evil,

       And the moon and the night but mock The wretch on his barren rock, And the dome of heaven high-arched Like his mouth is and and parched, And the caves of his heart high-spanned Are choked with alkali sand ! "

      We are living on water. It seems for the moment to quench the thirst, at least part of it. Peter's nervous state is very alarming. I feel sure he has delusions.

      He got up and staggered to the mantelpiece and leant against it with his arms stretched out. He cried in a hoarse, dry voice

      " Thirst !

       Not the thirst of the throat,

       Though that be the wildest and worst Of physical pangs that smote

       Alone to the heart of Christ,

       Wringing the one wild cry

       'I thirst' from His agony,

       While the soldiers drank and diced."

      He СКАЧАТЬ