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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Sunday, 29 August 1920
[Continued from the diary entry for 28 August, 1920]
But he laughed.
'My light! O my father, the Devil! It hath made all things one, being perfect, even as doth the Darkness!
'My Liberty! Every Restriction is gone; all Ways are as one; why then should I move? It were thus were I frozen stiff in the heart of a mountain of ice!'
He laughed. 'My son! thou art mine; thy tongue is a liar's; I, Satan, thy sire, am not shamed! And thy dam hath not stinted her son! thine itch of corruption is Sin's, she is proud of her son!
'I heard thy Word. "Let me hang! I'll not taste; let the Cup and the Sponge pass from me!" I watched thy Deed. The first pang of pain in thy soul made thee offer thy prayer to a Devil of Poison. Then thy fancy portrayed the obscene and blasphemous image of thyself crucified. Thou hadst had delight in life as maybe no man has surpassed; at least, thou thinkest so; and such pride can scarce bewail itself decently. Thou art the greatest, highest, deepest, broadest-ad nauseam. Thou art Saint, Poet, Seer; art God and Brute, my son; by Sin, hast made thy body the dancing-hall of drugs, disease and dung, and brothel for man and woman, babe and beast. Pride! thou art no less son of my loins by that than as a liar! Then these eight hours thou hast swilled my wine I Thou has revelled in writing—I, who am Satan am no more than thy seed's spilth; these words are thine; all's thy stupration's splash! And thy—
'The sponge? These eight hours long thou hast slyly squeezed its juice, sucked it with nameless, shameless lips by sorcery most obscene. For thine heart spake in thee: wrote on let me gloat silently.'
Let spinthriae feast mine eyes, foul words mine ears! Let my nose scent corruption, my tongue taste carrion; let Sin caress my skin, let Satan suck my soul! I love to tantalize myself! I love to love my Leah [Leah Hirsig] little by little. Let drowsily day drag dreams of her! Let nuptial night not need her! Little by little my love! Roll round thy palate the dram; let its savour loose thy tongue, that it may prophecy to thy blood what joys draw near! Sip, till the sensuous muse the sensual; then as the brain swims, swallow thy dram to the dregs! It's twenty minutes to six when my love cries the Law in the hall of Her Abbey. I'll make those twenty minutes immortal!
6.00 a.m. I did. All my old rage of love came seething in spate!
6.35 a.m. Leah has had to go cook haziri. I have a Sphinx-song in my head: I'll sing it.
4.15 p.m. Oh damn it! Yes, I sang it. 28 verses of 6 lines in about 8 hours. It is absurd. I find my fluency in verse hopelessly impaired. I make lines like a Jigsaw.
10.00 p.m. circa. Opus[1] I, 31-666-31 [Leah Hirsig]. Operation: very brief. I was fagged out, and over excited. Elixir: most absorbed, fair quality. Object: a new scenario (badly held). Result: no ideas at all.
1—[Crowley conducts a magical sexual operation.]
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