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