But the wicked magic of world events made Crowley’s little orgies look tame. He resented it; he was envious. Said he: “Before Hitler was, I am.” But it was no use. He became a fat, olive-skinned man with heavy jowls and mean little eyes which made him look like a stockbroker when the market is bad. He was crushed to hear himself described one day as “a rather harmless old gentleman.”
Last week Death, as it must even to magicians, came to Aleister Crowley. The world of 1947 buried him almost without noticing it, and without a shudder.