Konx Om Pax

unto women; striding beyond all euphemisms and agricultural implements he pro claims the virgin meaning of our ancient tongue and refuses to beget on Webster the jargon of Comstock and Rooseveldt. The explorer of Chogori and Kinchinjun a, a decadent? The compeller a degenerate? The lover of Alice and Rosa Mun i an anaemic schoolboy? Why, it is enough to make a Scotchman laugh! Not onl is it a violation of the English language, but it belongs to that class of pure literary lism, which Crowley has arisen to overthrow. A second Prometheus, he has snatched the fire from the secret place of God's glory, and bro ht it down in the hollow tube of his ecstasy-waking flute, and in the white chalice o God’s awful Dawn, he now offers them the wine of the Via Lactea caught from the rosy nipples of the Virgin of the World, of which he hath drunk, whereby the heart of man is glad. The ATHEIST says: A capital exposition. . . . Far as we are from admiring the dreamy romanticism of Captain Fuller’s hero, his staunch denial of the supernatural, the divine, the mystical, must command our respect and sympathy. . . . A great future lies before Captain Fuller. , The PROPHETIC MERCURY says: A wonderful mystin book . . . [Follows a long excursus on Daniel X.] . . . The ever-present sense of God in the mind of the ct leads us to the prayerful hope that one day he may be enlightened . . . [More a ut Daniel.] . . . We congratulate Captain Fuller upon his marvellous feeling for the unseen. We feel that he is very near to a complete understanding of prophetic truth. [Excursus on the “ Little Horn.”] The QUARTERLY COURIER says: In one of Mr. Aleister Crowley's vilest books—a book the horrid blasphemy of whose title we must be excused from quoting—the poet —save the mark l—says: . . . the loud bmbble of the monster Crowley That poet of the muck-heap. . . . Captain Fuller has written a book of 327 pages confirming this description. THE LITERARY GUIDE says: Happy the minor poet who can secure so exhaustive an examination of his writings as that contained in this extraordinary volume. If we adopt the author’s estimate, Mr. Crowley is no longer to be termed a “minor” t, but stands in the ranks of the immortals. Captain Fuller, it is true, deals more in eulogy than in criticism, and would be a more convincin interpreter if he did not write as a Qabalist, an adept in ceremonial magic, occult Bu dhism, and “all that sort of thing.” His knowledge is weird and remarkable, his ethics unfettered by the shackles of convention, and his style frequently eccentric, sometimes in doubtful taste, and sometimes, like that of his master, rushin onward in a. torrent of bold and magnificent images. Here, for instance, is a piece 0 “fine writing " which, of its kind, is excellent, though its meaning we presume not to fathom: O, Dweller in the Land of U2, thou also shalt be made drunken; but thy cup shall be hewn from the sapphire of the heavens, and thy wine shall be crushed from the clusters of innumerable stars; and thou s alt make thysell naked, and thy white limbs shall be splashed with the urple foam of immor tality. Thou shalt tear the ewelled tassels from the purse of thy spendthrift nnC , and shalt scatter to the winds the gold and sifver coins of thy thrifty Imagination; and the wine of t ' Folly shalt thou shower midst the braided locks of laughing comets, and the glittering cup of thine ll usions shalt thou hurl beyond the confines of Space over the very rim of Time. After two or three pages of this the reader may well echo the chapter’s concluding : “ Wine, wine, wine!” The first half of Captain Fuller’s book is a tolerably sober and often penetrative elucidation of the meaning of Mr. Crowley’s fine poems. This we understand and like. It has certainly brought home to us more vividly the great beauty and insight of the poet's work. But in the latter part of the book, consisting of one long Chapter entitled