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THE INTERNATIONAL

287

INTERNATIONAL

OCTOBER

1917

The cover for this month is unfortunately unreproducible.

287

The

288

THE INTERNATIONAL

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IT HOLDS THE OXYGEN

UNTIL THE SKIN ABSORBS IT

YOU KNOW WHAT OXYGEN

DOES!

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NEW YORK CITY

TO OUR READERS:

Do You Read the

Psychical Research

Review

May I not urge you to read the Grand Prize Distribution

Announcement in the August issue of THE INTERNA-

TIONAL? You still have an excellent chance of winning one

of the nine Motor Cars, seven Aeolian Vocalions, Gold

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communicate with me at 1123 Broadway, New York, without

delay.

A monthly sixty-four page magazine with

spirit pictures, devoted to Psychical Re-

search, Occultism, Astrology, Psychology,

Higher Thoughts, New Thought, and

Christian Science.

Published by the Psychological Publish-

ing and Distributing Corporation, 109 West

87th Street, Dept. S, New York City. C. P.

Christensen, Editor and President of the

Psychological Research Society of New

York, Inc.

Subscription Rates: In United States, per

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OTTO B. DeHAAS.

288

THE INTERNATIONAL

289

THE INTERNATIONAL

GLINTS OF AN OCTOBER OPAL.

CONTENTS FOR OCTOBER

I have such a swelled head over the excel-

lence of this number that I am afraid to talk

about it. Remember what happened to King Ne-

buchadnezzar and King Herod?

However, my birthday is in October, so I hope

every reader of this number who has not al-

ready subscribed for a year will do so. It’s worth

it. We shall not let the standard down.

The November number will be perfectly won-

derful.

There’s one of the best of the Simon Iff sto-

ries — a tale of a bank robbery. I’m not sure

that it isn’t the most exciting of the whole se-

ries. It certainly has got action — ever see a

Battery Mule in a panic?

Then there’s another of the great Mark Wells

stories of the golden past — one, by the way,

with a very strong application to the affairs of

to-day.

The Mark Wells stories of Pagan times are

all true stories in the highest sense of the word.

That is, they make these periods live again be-

fore the reader’s eyes. The customs and beliefs

which they describe are authentic, on the au-

thority of the greatest of all archaeologists, Dr.

J. G. Frazer, Lilt. D., whose classic, “The

Golden Bough,” is Mr. Wells’ chief source of

information.

We have, too, a startling article on

Shakespeare by Dr. Louis Wilkinson —

Shakespeare as Rebel, Aristocrat and Pessimist.

And we have the concluding section of the

Revival of Magick — with more to follow.

And we have quite a number of other good

things — and the trouble is that we don’t want

to announce them, because it is so hard to de-

cide to hold any one of them over.

Now do help us to increase the size of this

magazine to forty-eight pages. There isn’t an-

Cocaine ......................................... Aleister Crowley 291

In the Red Room of Rose Croix .............................. 294

The Scrutinies of Simon Iff. No. 2. The Artistic

Temperament ................................. Edward Kelly 295

A Perfect Pianissimo .................... Aleister Crowley 301

The Revival of Magick ............ The Master Therion 302

An African Love Song ................... Charles Beadle 304

The Discovery of Gneugh-Ioughrck ....................... 305

Absinthe ..................................... Jeanne la Goulue 306

Last Night ......................................... Faith Baldwin 306

Groans From the Padded Cell ................................. 307

Love Is One ............................................................. 309

The Argument That Took the Wrong Turning ....... 309

The Burning of Melcarth ...................... Mark Wells 310

Confessions of a Barbarian, ....................................

George Sylvester Viereck 313

The Spirit of the Strong ............... Aleister Crowley 315

Two Prose Poems ............................ Helen Woljeska 316

Quelque Chose (Some Shows) ................................ 317

The Gate of Knowledge .......................................... 318

The Ouija Board ...................... The Master Therion 319

War Poetry ......................................... Enid Parsons 319

The International Forum ......................................... 320

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other International in the world, and there never

will be. We have a new point of view, the rar-

est and most beautiful thing that exists. To read

the International is a liberal education, and the

best of it is that it is all done by kindness!

289

290

THE INTERNATIONAL

A WORD TO OUR FRIENDS

about THE INTERNATIONAL which he

can’t find in any other periodical.

selves cannot describe. It isn’t quite enough to say

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events of current interest; that THE INTERNATIONAL contains the

best fiction and the best essays of the day. There is more to be said for

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anything of the kind. After you have read this number you will

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the case, won’t you fill out the subscription blank at the bottom of

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290

SOMEONE said the other day that there is something

THERE is. It is indefinable; something which even we our-

TO call THE INTERNATIONAL “highbrow” is all wrong. It isn’t

THE INTERNATIONAL

291

THE INTERNATIONAL

EDITOR

GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

JOSEPH BERNARD RETHY

CONTRIBUTING EDITOR

ALEISTER CROWLEY

VOL. XI. NO. 10.

OCTOBER, 1917

PRICE 15 CENTS

COCAINE

BY ALEISTER CROWLEY.

“There is a happy land, far, far, away.”

Hymn.

[We disagree with our gifted contributing editor on some points, but nevertheless we regard this article as one of the most important studies of

the deleterious effects of a drug that, according to police statistics, is beginning to be a serious menace to our youth. — Ed.]

Of all the Graces that cluster about the throne of Venus the

most timid and elusive is that maiden whom mortals call Hap-

piness. None is so eagerly pursued; none is so hard to win. In-

deed, only the saints and martyrs, unknown usually to their fel-

low-men, have made her theirs; and they have attained her by

burning out the Ego-sense in themselves with the white-hot steel

of meditation, by dissolving themselves in that divine ocean of

Consciousness whose foam is passionless and perfect bliss.

To others, Happiness only comes as by chance; when least

sought, perhaps she is there. Seek, and ye shall not find; ask,

and ye shall not receive; knock, and it shall not be opened unto

you. Happiness is always a divine accident. It is not a definite

quality; it is the bloom of circumstances. It is useless to mix its

ingredients; the experiments in life which have produced it in

the past may be repeated endlessly, and with infinite skill and

variety — in vain.

It seems more than a fairy story that so metaphysical an en-

tity should yet be producible in a moment by no means of wis-

dom, no formula of magic, but by a simple herb. The wisest

man cannot add happiness to others, though they be dowered

with youth, beauty, wealth, health, wit and love; the lowest black-

guard shivering in rags, destitute, diseased, old, craven, stupid,

a mere morass of envy, may have it with one swift-sucked breath.

The thing is as paradoxical as life, as mystical as death.

Look at this shining heap of crystals! They are Hydrochloride

of Cocaine. The geologist will think of mica; to me, the moun-

taineer, they are like those gleaming feathery flakes of snow,

flowering mostly where rocks jut from the ice of crevassed gla-

ciers, that wind and sun have kissed to ghostliness. To those

who know not the great hills, they may suggest the snow that

spangles trees with blossoms glittering and lucid. The kingdom

of faery has such jewels. To him who tastes them in his nostrils

— to their acolyte and slave — they must seem as if the dew of

the breath of some great demon of Immensity were frozen by

the cold of space upon his beard.

For there was never any elixir so instant magic as cocaine.

Give it to no matter whom. Choose me the last losel on the

earth; let him suffer all the tortures of disease; take hope, take

faith, take love away from him. Then look, see the back of that

worn hand, its skin discolored and wrinkled, perhaps inflamed

with agonizing eczema, perhaps putrid with some malignant

sore. He places on it that shimmering snow, a few grains only, a

little pile of starry dust. The wasted arm is slowly raised to the

head that is little more than a skull; the feeble breath draws in

that radiant powder. Now we must wait. One minute — per-

haps five minutes.

Then happens the miracle of miracles, as sure as death, and

yet as masterful as life; a thing more miraculous, because so

sudden, so apart from the usual course of evolution. Natura non

facit saltum — nature never makes a leap. True — therefore

this miracle is a thing as it were against nature.

The melancholy vanishes; the eyes shine; the wan mouth

smiles. Almost manly vigor returns, or seems to return. At least

faith, hope and love throng very eagerly to the dance; all that

was lost is found.

The man is happy.

To one the drug may bring liveliness, to another languor; to

another creative force, to another tireless energy, to another

glamor, and to yet another lust. But each in his way is happy.

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