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I turned then sadly from Daibutsu, as I had turned from love, ambition and ease, my spirit silently 
acquiescing in the arcane arbitrament of the mysterious daimon who drove me darkly onward; how I 
knew not, whither I knew not, but only this, that he was irresistible as inscrutable, yet no less 
trustworthy than titanic. 
Alas! The failure of Alice to reach the summit of live! Thence are the valleys of virtue, the rivers of 
respectability and the sheepfolds of society seen dim and dull in the distance, bestially beneath our 
sparkling snows, or shoreless sky, our sacred sun and sentinel stars. 
Alice had broken my boy's heart; she had taught me what women were worth. For her I had 
surrendered my single-iminded devotion to my spiritual Quest; I had sold my soul to the devil for 
sixpence, and the coin was counterfeit. 
True, one of me knew all along the augury of the adventure; but then, all the worse! For if Alice 
had been a real danger, might not I have damned 
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myself for her, as many a knight for Venus of the Hollow Hill, as many a saint for Lilith, Lady of the 
Lake of Fire? Yet no: the answer came, august and austere, from mine Angel, that I had passed the 
Ordeal. I had proved that no passion, however pure and powerful, could enslave me. The caresses 
of no Calypso could chain me in her courts, the cup of Circe corrupt my chastity, the song of no 
Siren seduce me to suicide, the wiles of no Vivien ensnare my simplicity and bind me in the hollow 
oak of Broceliande. 
I had intoxicated myself utterly with Alice; I had invested her with all the insignia that my 
imagination could invent. Yet, loving her with all my heart and soul, she had not seduced me from 
my service. I knew --- and They who put her on my Path knew also --- that I was immune. I might 
dally with Delilah as much as I liked and never risk the scissors. Love, who binds other Samsons, 
blinds them and sets them to serve the Philistines, to be their scorn and sport, would be to me my 
Light and lead me in the way of liberty. The secret of my strength was the, that love would always 
stand a shining symbol of my truth, that I loved spiritually the soul of mankind. Therefore each 
woman, be she chaste or wanton, faithful or false, inspiring me to scale the summits of song or 
whispering me to wallow in the swamps of sin, would be to me no more than a symbol in whose 
particular virtue my love could fins the bread and wine of its universal eucharist. 
Time has confirmed this claim: I have loved many women and been loved. But I have never wavered 
from my Work; and always a moment has come when the woman had to choose between 
comradeship and catastrophe. For in truth, there was no Aleister Crowley to love; there was only a 
Word for the utterance of which a human form had been fashioned. So the foolish virgins, finding 
that love and vanity could not live together, gave up a man for a mirror; but the wise, knowing that 
man is mortal, gave up the world for the Work and thereby cheated satiety, disillusionment and 
death. 
Yet, so fearful was I at this time that I had failed and shown myself unfit to accomplish the terrific 
Tasks, to undertake which must be, as I was warned by some secret sense, the only honour I could 
accept from the High Gods, that I continued my journey to Ceylon in a mood not only contrite but 
confused. The calm soft loveliness of the Inland Sea brought no peace to my spirit; indeed, it made 
scarcely any impression upon my aesthetic sense. The sordid scramble of the foreign settlement of 
Shanghai stirred my scorn without rousing me from my stupefaction. In spite of the subtle passion to 
assimilate China which had taken possession of me in San Francisco, I could not so much as indulge 
in a saunter through the native city. I wanted to reach Hong Kong and tell my troubles to my Sister 
Fidelis. She would understand, judge, encourage and advise, none better. In the days of the G.'. D.'. 
debacle, her purity, her fearlessness, her loyalty, her scorn of all dishonourable device 
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