On a literary note

Last week I read a bio of Aleister Crowley. I am not in the least interested in becoming a follower. Nor do I have aspirations to be a magician. In the tacky showbiz sense or otherwise. I just really wanted to know what the fuss was about.

It was a well-written one, and I got a good sense of who the man was. It made me sad, overall. I thought that in summation, he was an extraordinarily intellegent and talented man. I don't know if the magick actually existed in anything but his head, but he did believe. (there were so many drugs involved, that I wouldn't rule out mass halucinations). I think that if he had focused in a different direction, he could've been great. But he made me sad. He was so ruled by his sexual passions that he let them mutate his character in an ugly way. He would've been much happier if he had been born 50 years later, too. He was bisexual, and spent an enormous amount of energy hiding the homosexual side of his person.

As for being the most evil man in the world, well, we've seen Stalin, Hitler, Idi Amin, etc. since him, and he doesn't even come close. The ritual murders, etc. are dispelled as myths. He struggled. Against drugs after they took over, against poverty after he spent his inheritence, and against himself. Kinda reminded me of Orson Welles in a way. Too bloody smart for their own good, and too arrogant to understand that there are limitations. But then, they both accomplished creative greatness. So who the fuck am I to complain? I just see that both died very unhappy and unhealthily. Reminds me of the Greek philosopher (can't remember who, and Kenga isn't here to ask) who said, "never judge a man happy until he is dead."