Confessions of Aleister Crowley

418 Are one as they were one ere time began, Are one on earth as they are one in heaven; Where the soul is given a new name, Confirming with an oath the same, And with celestial wine and bread Is most delicately fed, Yet suffereth in itself the curse Of the infinite universe, Having made its own confession Of the mystery of transgression; Where it is wedded solemnly With the ring of space and eternity; And where the oil, the Holiest Breath, With its first whisper dedicateth Its new life to a further death. This experience lasted throughout the night, and I describe the dawn, the awakening of the world and myself to what men call reality. The trout leap in the shingly shallows. Soared skyward the great sun, that hallows The pagan shrines of labour and light As the moon consecrates the night. Labour is corn and love is wine, And both are bless‚d in the shrine; Nor is he for priest designated. Who partakes only in one kind. I suited the action to the word. There was also the poem "A Birthday", written on August 10th for Leila Waddell, who was then twenty-six. She had gone to England to fulfil an engagement as leader of the Ladies' Orchestra in The Waltz Dream. The poem describes the history of our liaison. I wrote also two short stories. The hero of "The Woodcutter" is a forester who "chops to live and lives to chop". A silly Frenchman and his mistress are wandering through the forest. He fantastically exhorts the woodcutter to make an art of his work, while the girl amuses herself by trying to excite the old man's passions. That night there is a thunderstorm; and an English girl, who has lost her way, takes refuge in his hut. He combines the element of his thought during sleep, chops her to pieces, stacks her limbs neatly by the hut, and goes off to his regular work. A rescue party discovers him. The story ends, "They told him of a widow lady in Paris who could beat him at his own game." {667} I am passionately indignant that the persistent beastliness of the average mind insists that the woodcutter violated the girl. Such a suggestion completely ruins the point of the story, which is that his mind had room for no idea of any kind except chopping. "His Secret Sin" was written on an idea given me by Neuburg. I heard afterwards it had already been used by Punch. It is admitted, of course, that this kind of plagiarism is allowable. A prosperous English grocer is in Paris on business. He wants desperately to be "wicked", but is ashamed to inquire how these things are done. On the last day of his stay he is goaded to madness by seeing the statue of Joan of Arc astride a horse. He makes up his mind to buy an indecent photograph at least and dives into a shop, where he asks for something "tray sho". The shopman contemptuously produces albums of reproductions from the Louvre. When he strikes the Venus of Milo, he secrets it, pays half a sovereign in terror and slinks out of the shop. He keeps the photograph in his safe and brings it out at night and gloats.