Aleister Crowley (17 page)

The trip was not a success. Coke was a difficult case, and Crowley endured a great deal of abuse. The Earl soon wearied of Crowley’s perpetual “teaching-teaching-teaching” as if Crowley was “God Almighty,” and he, a “poor bloody shit in the street!”
¹⁶
Crowley’s pedagogical style grated on the Earl, but this shows that Crowley took his role as a teacher seriously. Yet his lessons—mostly getting Tankerville to throw off what Crowley saw as his sexual repressions—fell on deaf ears. When the Earl accused him of being in his mother’s employ, Crowley threw in the towel and enjoyed the rest of his stay on his own.

Crowley donned a burnoose and looked for adventures in the souk, some of which most likely included young boys. On one solitary wander Crowley came upon a crowd of Sidi Aissawa—scorpion
eaters—performing their secret dances. Crowley was immediately fascinated and began to chant a phrase he had learned from his sheik in Cairo:
Subhana Allahu Walhamdu lilahi walailaha illa allahu—
“the Great Word to become mad and go about naked . . .” Crowley drew his burnoose around him and moved closer to the frenzied dancers, who struck themselves on the head with ritual axes until their faces were covered with blood. Crowley wanted to toss off his turban and plunge into the festivities, shouting, “
Allahu akbar!
” But his presence of mind saved him; his spiritual voyeurism was an effrontery and after feeling himself “vibrating with the energy of the universe,” Crowley drifted away. He and the Earl reunited and left the desert sand for Spain and then England.

Back home Crowley began a series of mystical writings, the “Holy Books of
Thelema
.” He had already compiled an early version of his Kabbalistic reference book
777
and a collection of magical essays,
Konx Om Pax
(“Light in Extension,” 1907), as well as a series of hymns to the Virgin Mary in which he “tried to see the world through the eyes of a devout Catholic,” in the same way that he viewed life through the lens of a decadent poet in
White Stains
. We may take this disclaimer with some grains of salt, but Crowley’s hymns earned the praise of some Christian critics, until they discovered the identity of the author.
¹⁷
But these other works were different. Crowley claimed they were not wholly composed by him but also not entirely “inspired.” The two central ones are
The Book of the Heart Girt with a Serpent
(1909) and
The Book of Lapis Lazuli
(1910). Israel Regardie writes that Crowley wrote nothing of greater value after them, and that they display an “entirely different type of writing than he had ever done before,” a claim I find unsupportable.
¹⁸

Regardie also believes that on the strength of the Holy Books,
Crowley cannot be judged as other men, an assertion Crowley certainly agreed with.
The Book of the Heart Girt with a Serpent
depicts the relationship between an adept and his Holy Guardian Angel, which, Regardie argues, is essentially passive. “The work of
Augoeides
,” Regardie writes,
“requires the Adept to assume the woman’s part: to long for the bridegroom . . . and to be ever ready to receive his kiss,” a practice Crowley was prepared for by adopting the passive role in his homosexual relations, but also by his fundamentally passive attitude toward life.
¹⁹
The Book of Lapis Lazuli
was, Crowley said, inspired by his crossing the Abyss during his walk across China. Crowley did not formally adopt the grade of Magister Templi 8
⁰
= 3
⁰
until the end of 1909, having claimed the grade of Adeptus Exemptus 7
⁰
= 4
⁰
earlier that year, taking the names OU MH
and then Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici (“By the Force of Truth I have Conquered the Universe While Living,” which Crowley usually wrote as
V.V.V.V.V.
) respectively. But he believed that by the end of his Asian trek, he had passed through the barrier and entered the sphere of the Supernals. He was indeed unlike other men, was, in fact, no man at all, but one of the Secret Chiefs.

Crowley had exceeded Mathers in magical rank, and it was time to found his own esoteric order. At some point between 1907 and 1908, Crowley formed his magical society, the A.
^.
.A.
^.
. Crowley began to take on students, and did so for the rest of his life. We can regard Crowley’s mystical tutoring as merely a way to fill his increasingly empty pockets, but this would be doing him a disservice. Crowley was sincere. A look at the “required reading” at the back of
Magick in Theory and Practice
shows that, if nothing else, following it would provide the equivalent of a college degree. Nothing would be easier than to dismiss Crowley as an opportunistic fake,
or
to take him at
face value as the champion of human liberation. Crowley was not wholly one or the other but a frustrating confusion of the two. Anyone serious about understanding him has to master the difficult art of sifting one from the other.

At the beginning, recruitment for his new order was low. The first two members were Crowley and George Cecil Jones (Volo Noscere
—
“I Wish to Know”). Captain Fuller (Per Ardura ad Astra “Through Struggle to the Stars”) soon joined their ranks and he was to bring along a new recruit who would play an important role in Crowley’s life.

—

B
Y
A
PRIL
1908
Rose’s condition had worsened. Crowley’s frequent exits for parts unknown didn’t help, but it was precisely this advice that Gerald Kelly, Oscar Eckenstein, and the family doctor offered: Crowley should go away and threaten not to return until Rose got on the wagon. Crowley didn’t need to hear this twice. He had kept his wandering ways and when not entertaining on Jermyn Street or sharing the Warwick Road flat with Rose, he was overseeing his precarious estate in Boleskine, visiting his mother in Eastbourne, or frequenting favorite haunts in Paris. It was to this last that he decided to repair. He took a room in the Hôtel de Blois at 50 rue Vavin in the Latin Quarter, an address he maintained for several years. In Paris, Crowley tried his hand at writing short stories, something he would return to a decade later during his years in New York with his Simon Iff detective tales. Crowley’s occult fiction has its admirers, but for my taste it doesn’t rank with other weird writers of the time, such as Algernon Blackwood or Arthur Machen, both of whom Crowley considered amateurs.
²⁰
But even Paris could not hold him
for long and Crowley slipped out of the City of Light for forays into Venice.

In 1908 Crowley published
The World’s Tragedy
, another attack on Christianity, couched in the form of autobiography. He wanted it to circulate among the young and “seduce the boys of England,” so they could “bring about the new heaven and the new earth” by joining him in the worship of Pan.
²¹
Speaking of Pan at that time was fashionable; there was a veritable pandemic of writing then celebrating the randy Greek god (Arthur Machen had made his name in 1894 with “The Great God Pan,” and J. M. Barrie’s
Peter Pan
had appeared in 1904). “Seduce the boys of England” suggests a double entendre, especially as part of the book is a defense of sodomy.

But what is important is that Crowley is openly seeking followers. “You are not a Crowleian,” he tells his readers with a heavy-handed paradox, until you say “Thank God I am an atheist.” Again it is not
thelema
he is advocating, but himself. Crowley made recruitment drives for his occult movement in Oxford and Cambridge, but his most successful convert was practically handed to him on a platter.

Captain Fuller met the twenty-three-year-old poet Victor Neuburg at the funeral of William Stewart Ross, the editor of the
Agnostic Journal
, who died in November 1906. Neuburg had published some poetry in the journal and had read some of Crowley’s verse and he and Fuller became acquainted. Neuburg is little read today, and outside of Crowleyan circles he is best known for his hand in the publication of Dylan Thomas’s first book of poems. In the 1930s Neuburg edited a poetry section in a newspaper,
The Sunday Referee
, and his enthusiasm for Thomas’s verse led the newspaper’s editor to finance Thomas’s
18 Poems
(1934). Neuburg died in 1940.

Fuller told Crowley about Neuburg. He, too, had come from a
wealthy, repressive family, although his background was Jewish, not Christian, something Crowley never let him forget. Neuburg was reading languages at Crowley’s alma mater, Cambridge, and on an excursion to his old haunts, Crowley turned up unannounced at Neuburg’s rooms. He had read some of the younger poet’s verse and told him that it showed signs of promise. Neuburg also showed great magical potential, but equally appealing was Neuburg’s masochism and obvious need for a master. Neuburg was awkward, self-conscious, and unsure of himself, and his appearance matched his insecurities: unkempt, unwashed, ill mannered, thick lipped, curly haired, and possessed of a peculiarly piercing nervous laugh. Yet from most accounts Neuburg also had a curious faunlike appearance. Crowley was taller, accomplished, confident, flamboyant, and in search of a student. The two were made for each other, and along with developing a guru-
chela
relationship they also became lovers.

Neuburg’s association with Crowley soon led to trouble. Neuburg belonged to the university’s Pan Society—in 1910 he published a collection of poems entitled
The Triumph of Pan
—and Crowley often lectured to the group. When the Cambridge Inter-Collegiate Christian Union discovered this, they complained; Crowley’s reputation preceded him. An anonymous letter accusing Crowley of pederasty reached Rev. R. St. J. Parry, dean of Trinity, who immediately barred Crowley from the college. (As Crowley was an ex-Trinity man, the Dean really could not do this.) A fellow student of Neuburg’s and member of the Pan Society, Norman Mudd, was outraged when the Dean ordered him to cancel all of Crowley’s future lectures, and he called on his fellow members to refuse. Crowley eventually confronted the Dean and asked why he had barred him from the college. The Dean had no problem with magic, he said, but Crowley’s sexual
ideas were immoral. Parry finally threatened to expel anyone who had any dealings with Crowley. Mudd, who came from a poor background, was especially vulnerable, as the Dean could cancel his scholarship. Eventually he backed down and promised to avoid Crowley, a decision he regretted for the rest of his life. That he was forced to betray his role model gnawed at him for years to come.

—

N
EUBURG
JOINED
THE
A
.
..
A
...,
taking the name
Omnia Vincam
(“I Shall Conquer All”), and started on his training. Along with extensive reading, this included eating hashish; Crowley believed it stimulated astral travel, a mystical knack for which Neuburg showed much potential. But Crowley also subjected Neuburg to a barrage of sadistic practical jokes, ostensibly to “liberate” him from his repressions and introduce him to “life,” but also to indulge Crowley’s own cruel sense of humor. At a party in Paris, Crowley got Neuburg drunk on Pernod and watched as the stumbling poet made embarrassing advances on women. Intuiting that Neuburg was a virgin, Crowley hatched a plan with one of his lovers, an artist’s model named Euphemia Lamb. Crowley told Neuburg that Euphemia was in love with him and before he knew it, they were engaged. Crowley then took Neuburg to a brothel, after which Crowley berated Neuburg for his infidelity and urged him to confess all to his betrothed, who was appropriately shocked and refused to see him. When Crowley eventually told Neuburg it was all a joke, he refused to believe it, and only accepted it when he found Euphemia naked on Crowley’s bed, enjoying a cigarette after sex. Crowley claims it was all for Neuburg’s benefit, but Crowley’s idea of what was good for someone invariably meant putting them in sexual situations he approved of. Crowley
seemed intent on fashioning Neuburg after his own image, subjecting him to humiliations and encouraging him in sexual “freedom” Crowley style. Whether it did Neuburg any good is debatable.

Crowley’s contemporary Gurdjieff also subjected his pupils to unpleasant, often painful ordeals; but he never gives the impression that he enjoyed it. Madame Blavatsky, too, often made life hell for the people around her, but one doesn’t feel that she got pleasure from it. Crowley had a nasty streak that his position as a teacher allowed him to indulge, and it is instructive that he quickly backed away from people who resisted him. Yet Crowley was a master at self-justification. If questioned about his sadistic methods, he could easily reply, “But I am only doing it for his own good.”

Neuburg’s own good included a grueling hike through northern Spain at the height of summer, where his and Crowley’s eventual grubby appearance led to their being mistaken for bandits. It also required a magical retirement in Boleskine. This occult holiday was a mix of magical training and straight-out S&M. Neuburg practiced the occult discipline of “rising on the planes,” a form of Kabbalistic meditation. One imagines an astral body, transfers one’s consciousness to it, and then uses it to “rise” through the Tree of Life. Neuburg proved very good at it, early on encountering the angel Gabriel, who wore white and had green spots on his wings and a Maltese Cross on his head. He also met a Red Giant who dismembered him; he was powerless against him until Crowley taught him the sign of Horus (leaning forward and stretching out the arms) and the sign of Harpocrates (putting one’s left forefinger on the lips). Curiously, Neuburg reported nocturnal emissions during some of these adventures.
²²
Neuburg’s astral travels were essentially extensions of the kinds of experiences Yeats had when experimenting with the
tattwa
symbols, but they are also very similar to what Jung called “active imagination,” a method of conscious fantasy that connects the conscious and unconscious mind. For Jung, the beings and landscapes encountered in active imagination emerge from the archetypes of the collective unconscious; for Crowley and Neuburg, they are the denizens of the Kabbalistic “paths” between the
sephiroth
of the Tree of Life. Swedenborg practiced a similar discipline on his many journeys to heaven and hell, and Rudolf Steiner did much the same when he “read” what he called the Akashic Record. (In
A Secret History of Consciousness
, I suggest that we have a natural capacity for this in what is known as “hypnagogia,” the strange state of consciousness between sleeping and waking.
²³
Jung, Swedenborg, and Steiner were all good hypnagogists.)
We may argue whether the inner spaces encountered in Jung’s or Neuburg’s experiences were “merely” psychological or true “objective” mental realms. Nevertheless, each explorer encounters a strange inner territory that also seems to have its own odd “objectivity.” Even non-occultists experience this. After taking mescaline, Aldous Huxley spoke about the mind’s “darkest Africas, its unmapped Borneos and Amazonian basins,” remarking on the “complete autonomy” of our inner inhabitants.
²⁴