Excellent mountaineering sagas and tips on organic mosquito control. ( )

I found 3 editions of this in the GoodReads database - 1 of the others calls it an "autobiography" & one just calls it "The Confessions of Aleister Crowley". "Autohagiography" means "autobiography of a saint" so reducing that to a mere "autobiography" is completely out of the spirit of the bk. I was tempted to create a new bookshelf here esp in this bk's honor: "megalomania" - but that's too easy a shot. Crowley was far from stupid & there's plenty of humor in his writings. &, besides, I read all, what was it?, 1300 pages?, of this so there was plenty in it to keep my attn.

This is another example of something non-fiction that I read a long time ago that I still remember substantial details from - once again demonstrating that I sortof escape into fictional worlds & then forget them but I remember things that somehow resonate more w/ 'real life'.

Crowley had inherited wealth & lived it up as a result - gradually living the high life less & less as the money ran out & he had no self-support skills other than parasitism to pull him thru - a not-too-atypical trajectory of the rich-&-useless. Reading his description of his early yrs as a failed mountain climber are (apparently unintentionally) a hilarious look at the imbecilic egomania of British aristocrats. Crowley's full of self-praise & then ridicules the sherpas who're assisting him. W/ apparently no self-irony he writes about how one of the sherpas wdn't've died if they'd only listened to his great genius & wisdom. Somehow it doesn't seem to've occurred to him that maybe if he'd carried his own voluminous luggage & slept outside, like the sherpas did, instead of climbing in relative luxury & sleeping in a heated tent, he might not have survived the trip either.

Later one gets to read about Crowley's being the greatest poet of the turn of the century. Funny, he seems like a complete hack to me. Of course, Crowley's reknowned for doing things like leaving piles of cocaine around to prove that he can refrain from using such things if need be. Then he died a heroin addict. Nice try, Aleister. In later yrs, he was in the US before &/or during WWII & connected to a German society connected w/ nazism. His claim? That he was a spy for the Brits. Somehow, I'm not convinced.

Still, don't get me wrong. I like Crowley. I've read quite a few of his bks. I wonder if he was really as insufferable a megalomaniac in person as he comes across here. In a bk of mine I reference this as "pompous blatherings" but at least Crowley didn't lead a dull life. ( )

For the last twenty-nine years this book has resided on my shelf, unread. So many reasons to procrastinate: the paper is acidified, it was edited by persons with potential axes to grind, a new and full edition is in the works, it is 923 pages of small print, &c., &c. The dog-faced demons were manifold and cuddly. Yet, the last magical advice I received from a very dear mentor was to read this book. Still, I awaited publication of The Spirit of Solitude. It occurred to me how silly this strategy is, as if a still, small voice whispered in my ear, “You aren't reading books you do have because you're waiting for ones you don't?”

And thus, I heeded the voice on the Saturnian return of my ownership of the book.

There is much mountaineering, and many trips to the dictionary, and Google searches of certain phrases lead back to online versions of this very text. And yet, scattered throughout the text are important insights into other of Crowley’s works, as well as guidance on particular magical practices. For these alone, reading the book is well worthwhile. More detail in this last respect cannot be easily given, as the insights are surprisingly personal.

Some parts of Confessions are repetitive, and at times Crowley refers back to incidents not described or foreshadows events not related. I lay this at the feet of the editors. Also, there is a strange deja vu to other parts, perhaps owing to their being quoted in introductions of other Crowley works. This also underscores the importance of reading Confessions. Poignantly, Crowley’s main confession is that he trusted people too much.

On a minor note, the oblique references to gay society were entertaining. In referring to George Rafflovitch, for example, Crowley relates,

They saved a few thousand for the fool and kept him on short commons to teach him sense. He had snarled and become a socialist. I met him at the Gargotte off Holborn, being the only man there who looked at all like a gentleman. I paid him special attention. This suited him down to the ground. He saw a chance to cadge. He agreed with me about socialism. It appeared that his motive in frequenting that milieu was identical with my own.
(p. 633.)

It is too bad, however, he wrote so generally about Cefalù. It is unclear whether this was his choice, or that of his editors. Regardless, those incidents are covered in other biographies, from both outsider and initiated points of view.

It's an important work, though this edition's importance will be eclipsed once the Spirit of Solitude is published. ( )

I thought this was going to be full of juicy drama because, well, Aleister Crowley...but it was blindingly boring. ( )

Back in the day I was fascinated by this guy. He had some interesting ideas, but now strikes me as rather a grand buffoon. This is a good introduction. ( )