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way my father would break down the entire chain of causes and bring his interlocutor to realize the 
entire vanity of human effort. The moral was, of course, "Get right with God." 
At this time the consciences of men were much exercised, as our fathers put it, with regard to the 
monument which Jacob Epstein had made for the tomb of Oscar Wilde in Pčre-Lachaise. This 
monument had been on exhibition in his studio in London for some months and the most delicately 
minded dilettanti had detected nothing objectionable in it. No sooner had it been put in the 
cemetery than the guardian objected to it as indecent. The Prefect of the Seine upheld him. I went 
to see it. I did not greatly admire it; I thought the general design lumpish and top-heavy, but the 
modelling of the winged sphinx, or whatever it was, seemed admirably simple and subtle. The 
aesthetic point was, however, not at stake. The attitude of the authorities was an insult and 
outrage to the freedom of art. The entire innocence of the statue made their action less defensible, 
thought personally I do not believe in any restrictions based on prejudice. Great art is always 
outspoken and its effect on people depends on their minds alone. We have now discovered, in fact, 
that the most harmless phenomena of dreams really represent the most indecent and abominable 
ideas. If we choose to find an objectionable meaning in Alice in Wonderland, or determine to 
persuade ourselves that the frank oriental obscenities of the Bible are indecent, no one can stop us. 
Mankind can only rise above his lower self by facing the facts and mastering his instincts. 
I was indignant at the insult to Epstein and to art in his person. I therefore resolved to make a 
gesture on behalf of the prerogatives of creative genius. I printed a manifesto: 
{644} 
AU NOM DE LA LIBERTÉ DE L'ART 
L'Artiste a le droit de créer ce qu'il vent! 
Le beau monument d'Oscar Wilde au Pčre-Lachaise, chef d'oeuvre du sculpteur Jacob Epstein, 
quoique déjŕ mutilé et dégradé par ordre du Préfet de la Seine, reste toujours voilé. 
A midi, Mercredi prochain le 5 Novembre, M. Aleister Crowley, le počte Irlandais, va le dévoiler. 
Venez lui pręter votre sympathie et votre aide, venez protester contre la tyrannie pudibonde et 
pornophile des bourgeois, venez affirmer le droit de l'Artiste de créer ce qu'il veut. 
Rendez-vous, Cimetičre de Pčre-Lachaise, auprčs du monument d'Oscar Wilde, ŕ midi, Mercredi, 5 
Novembre. 
I had this distributed widely through Paris. My friend and landlord, M. Bourcier, shook his head very 
sadly. They would send soldiers, he said, "with cannon and bayonet" to form a cordon round the 
monument and prevent me from removing the tarpaulin. Oh, will they? said I. So I opened my mind 
to an enthusiastic young American, who agreed to help me. We bought a coil of extremely fine and 
strong steel wire, which would be practically invisible in the dull November gloom. We waited till 
the gates were closed and then proceeded to attach the wire to the tarpaulin, so that from the 
shelter of a tree a couple of hundred yards away, a gentle pull would suffice to bring it away, I 
having cut through the cords which kept it in place in such a way that they held only by a fibre, 
apparently uninjured. I was to make no attempt to rush the military forces of the Republic, but 
make a speech on the outskirts. When I threw up my arm to apostrophize the empyrean, he was to 
pull the wires from his lurking place. These arrangements completed, we got out by explaining to 
the gatekeeper that we had lost our way. 
The next day at the appointed hour, I went to the cemetery with one or two desperate adherents. A 
distinguished concourse of enthusiasts was awaiting the Darling of Destiny, the Warden of the 
Worthiness of Wilde, the Emancipator of the Ebullition of Epstein. We marched in solemn procession 
to the tomb. I was amused to observe that the patrols, immediately they saw us, scuttled away like 
rabbits. I supposed at first that they had gone to give warning, and expected to be arrested before 
the conclusion of the entertainment, but when we got to the tomb I found no serried ranks of 
soldiers shouting, "Il ne passeront pas!" There was not a soul in sight!