The Star in the West

FOREWORD II ability . The stale odour of Mrs. Grundy's petticoats vanishes , neither is it replaced by the patchouli of Thais , nor the musk of Aspasia ; and if the aroma of a little human sweat does salute our nostrils , it is at least a healthy human smell —an odour of sanctity infinitely preferable to all the ancient pot - pourri of Philistia , that young and old ladies are alike so fond of distributing among their pretty speeches , as well as their pretty garments . “ Is life , then , to resolve itself for us into a chain of exhilarating pangs ? ” asked Pallas , in Mr. Gosse's “ Hypolympia , " in answer to the query of Æsculapius , “ What is pleasure ? ” We see the mortal form of the immortal healer climbing along the jutting cornice of some cliff , in search for the simples of life ; and as the zephyrs waft his long ashen locks around his furrowed brow , his trembling hand clutches some rugged crag , more perhaps from joy than fear . And so , as we now open the works of Aleister Crowley , we are filled with an exhilarating chain of pangs ; mortal - like we are never sated , and as our lips taste the nectar of true poetry we tremblingly clutch the crags of Parnassus in search for the Asphodel of Love , Wisdom , and Beauty . Here , as we turn some beetling height , the dying rays of the Swinburnian sun sink , those rays that ruffled the vestal purity of the clouds to the rosy blush of a lover's kiss , and in the departing light we again find the mystic Trinity midst the hellebore and thistles of existence , en throned , eternal . The sun sinks , and the last notes of the nightingale die into the stillness of falling night . The emerald sky like the robe of some car - borne Astarté , slashed with an infinite orange and red , fades into the sombre garment of night ; and above silently