Aleister Crowley Quotes (1875-1947)

“The cause of human sectarianism is not lack of sympathy in thought, but in speech; and this it is our not unambitious design to remedy.”

“The cause of human sectarianism is not lack of sympathy in thought, but in speech; and this it is our not unambitious design to remedy.”

“I slept with Faith, and found a corpse in my arms on awaking; I drank and danced all night with Doubt, and found her a virgin in the morning.”

“I slept with faith and found a corpse in my arms on awakening; I drank and danced all night with doubt and found her a virgin in the morning.”

“It is explained in this essay that the whole of the Tarot is based upon the Tree of Life, and that the Tree of Life is always cognate with Tetragrammaton.”

“Toronto as a city carries out the idea of Canada as a country. It is a calculated crime against the aspirations of the soul and the affection of the heart.”

“The Many is as adorable to the One as the One is to the Many. This is the Love of These; creation-parturition is the Bliss of the One; coition-dissolution is the Bliss of the Many. The All, thus interwoven of These, is Bliss. Naught is beyond Bliss.”

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and had better come first. Purity means singleness. God is one. The Wand is not a Wand if it has something sticking to it which is not an essential part of itself. If you wish to invoke Venus, you do not succeed if there are traces of Saturn mixed up with it.”

“I believe in the communion of Saints. And, forasmuch as meat and drink are transmuted in us daily into spiritual substance, I believe in the Miracle of the Mass. And I confess one Baptism of Wisdom, whereby we accomplish the Miracle of Incarnation. And I confess my life one, individual and eternal that was, and is, and is to come.”

“These are fools that men adore; both their Gods & their men are fools. This verse establishes uncompromisingly that all Gods — G capital, that is to say, 'true Gods' — and all men deified by legend or deceit — that is to say, false gods' — are fools. How come? It is a key. Distinction is clearly made between the two types: one are Gods; the other is men.”

“These are fools that men adore; both their Gods & their men are fools. This verse establishes uncompromisingly that all Gods — G capital, that is to say, 'true Gods' — and all men deified by legend or deceit — that is to say, false gods' — are fools. How come? It is a key. Distinction is clearly made between the two types: one are Gods; the other is men.”

“If you examine the highest poetry in the light of common sense, you can only say that it is rubbish; and in actual fact you cannot so examine it at all, because there is something in poetry which is not in the words themselves, which is not in the images suggested by the words 'O windy star blown sideways up the sky!' True poetry is itself a magic spell which is a key to the ineffable.”

“The titles of the Qliphoth, generally speaking, suggest the vice characteristic of the Sephira or other idea to which they are attributed. Thus the Thaumiel refer to Kether, because their characteristic is to possess two contending heads, and so to deny the unity of Kether. So also the Golachab are giants like volcanoes, symbolizing energy and fire, and their liability to appear as tyranny and aimless destruction. Similarly, the Qliphoth of Venus are carrion birds, as opposed to the dove, sparrow, etc.”

“The following is an attempt to systematize alike the data of mysticism and the results of comparative religion. The skeptic will applaud our labours, for that the very catholicity of the symbols denies them any objective validity, since, in so many contradictions, something must be false; while the mystic will rejoice equally that the self-same catholicity all-embracing proves that very validity, since after all something must be true. Fortunately we have learnt to combine these ideas, not in the mutual toleration of sub-contraries, but in the affirmation of contraries, that transcending of the laws of intellect which is madness in the ordinary man, genius in the Overman who hath arrived to strike off more fetters from our understanding.”

“Where, in the coppice, oak and pine   And mystic yew and elm are found, Sweeping the skies, that grow divine   With the dark wind’s despairing sound,   The wind that roars from the profound, And smites the mountain-tops, and calls Mute spirits to black festivals,   And feasts in valleys iron-bound,   Desolate crags, and barren ground;— There in the strong storm-shaken grove Swings the pale censer-fire for love.The foursquare altar, rightly hewn,   And overlaid with beaten gold, Stands in the gloom; the stealthy tune   Of singing maidens overbold   Desires mad mysteries untold, With strange eyes kindling, as the fleet Implacable untiring feet   Weave mystic figures manifold   That draw down angels to behold The moving music, and the fire Of their intolerable desire.For, maddening to fiercer thought,   The fiery limbs requicken, wheel In formless furies, subtly wrought   Of swifter melodies than steel   That flashes in the fight: the peal Of amorous laughters choking sense, And madness kissing violence,   Ring like dead horsemen; bodies reel   Drunken with motion; spirits feel The strange constraint of gods that clip From Heaven to mingle lip and lip.The gods descend to dance; the noise   Of hungry kissings, as a swoon, Faints for excess of its own joys,   And mystic beams assail the moon,   With flames of their infernal noon; While the smooth incense, without breath, Spreads like some scented flower of death,   Over the grove; the lovers’ boon   Of sleep shall steal upon them soon, And lovers’ lips, from lips withdrawn, Seek dimmer bosoms till the dawn.Yet on the central altar lies   The sacrament of kneaded bread, With blood made one, the sacrifice   To those, the living, who are dead—   Strange gods and goddesses, that shed Monstrous desires of secret things Upon their worshippers, from wings   One lucent web of light, from head   One labyrinthine passion-fed Palace of love, from breathing rife With secrets of forbidden life.But not the sunlight, nor the stars,   Nor any light but theirs alone, Nor iron masteries of Mars,   Nor Saturn’s misconceiving zone,   Nor any planet’s may be shown, Within the circle of the grove, Where burn the sanctities of love:   Nor may the foot of man be known,   Nor evil eyes of mothers thrown On maidens that desire the kiss Only of maiden Artemis.But horned and huntress from the skies,   She bends her lips upon the breeze, And pure and perfect in her eyes,   Burn magical virginity’s   Sweet intermittent sorceries. When the slow wind from her sweet word In all their conchéd ears is heard.   And like the slumber of the seas,   There murmur through the holy trees The kisses of the goddess keen, And sighs and laughters caught between.For, swooning at the fervid lips   Of Artemis, the maiden kisses Sob, and the languid body slips   Down to enamelled wildernesses.   Fallen and loose the shaken tresses; Fallen the sandal and girdling gold, Fallen the music manifold   Of moving limbs and strange caresses,   And deadly passion that possesses The magic ecstasy of these Mad maidens, tender as blue seas.Night spreads her yearning pinions,   The baffled day sinks blind to sleep; The evening breeze outswoons the sun’s   Dead kisses to the swooning deep.   Upsoars the moon; the flashing steep Of Heaven is fragrant for her feet; The perfume of the grove is sweet   As slumbering women furtive creep   To bosoms where small kisses weep, And find in fervent dreams the kiss Most memoried of Artemis.Impenetrable pleasure dies   Beneath the madness of new dreams; The slow sweet breath is turned to sighs   More musical than many streams   Under the moving silver beams, Fretted with stars, thrice woven across. White limbs in amorous slumber toss,   Like sleeping foam, whose silver gleams   On motionless dark seas; it seems As if some gentle spirit stirred Their lazy brows with some swift word.So, in the secret of the shrine,   Night keeps them nestled, so the gloom Laps them in waves as smooth as wine,   As glowing as the fiery womb   Of some young tigress, dark as doom, And swift as sunrise. Love’s content Builds its own monument,   And carves above its vaulted tomb   The Phoenix on her fiery plume, To their own souls to testify Their kisses’ immortality.”