Chapter I a Verse 51
49
Nuit. This being sure, we are urged to the fullest expansion of our 
several Natures, with special attention to those pleasures which 
not only express the soul, but aid it to reach the higher develop­
ments of that expression.
The act of Love is to the bourgeois (as the “Christian” is called 
nowadays) a gross animal gesture which shames his boasted 
humanity. The appetite drags him at its hoofs; it tires him, dis­
gusts him, diseases him, makes him ridiculous even in his own 
eyes. It is the source of nearly all his neuroses.
Against this monster he has devised two protections. Firstly, he 
pretends that it is a Fairy Prince disguised, and hangs it with the 
rags and tinsel of romance, sentiment, and religion. He calls it 
Love, denies its strength and truth, and worships this wax figure 
of him with all sorts of amiable lyrics and leers.
Secondly, he is so certain, despite all his theatrical-wardrobe­
work, that it is a devouring monster, that he resents with insane 
ferocity the existence of people who laugh at his fears, and tell 
him that the monster he fears is in reality not a fire-breathing 
worm, but a spirited horse, well trained to the task of the bridle. 
They tell him not to be a gibbering coward, but to learn to ride. 
Knowing well how abject he is, the kindly manhood of the advice 
is, to him, the bitterest insult he can imagine, and he calls on the 
mob to stone the blasphemer. He is therefore particularly anxious 
to keep intact the bogey he so dreads; the demonstration that 
Love is a general passion, pure in itself, and the redeemer of all 
them that put their trust in Him, is to tear open the raw ulcer of 
his soul.
We of Thelema are not the slaves of Love, “love under will” is 
the Law. We refuse to regard love as shameful and degrading, as a 
peril to body and soul. We refuse to accept it as the surrender of 
the divine to the animal; to us it is the means by which the animal 
may be made the Winged Sphinx which shall bear man aloft to 
the House of the Gods.
We are then particularly careful to deny that the object of love 
is the gross physiological object which happens to be Nature’s 
excuse for it. Generation is a sacrament of the physical Rite, by 
which we create ourselves anew in our own image, weave in a 
new flesh-tapestry the Romance of our own Soul’s History. But