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The 100th Monkey


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The Diary of a Drug Fiend.


Upper Cover




Title Page


Copyright Page



Bound in blue cloth.1
Upper cover lettered in red within a double-ruled frame ‘THE DIARY | OF A DRUG FIEND | ALEISTER CROWLEY’.2
Spine lettered in red horizontally across the spine ‘THE | DIARY | OF A | DRUG | FIEND | ALEISTER | CROWLEY | THE | RYERSON | PRESS’.2
7 1/4” x 4 7/8”.

Publisher: Ryerson Press.1  
Published At: Toronto.1  
Date: About 1923.1  
Edition: 1st Edition, Canadian Issue.  

x + 368.1




This Canadian issue was possibly produced in 1923 and is comprised of the sheets of the UK first edition with new preliminary leaves inserted.  The binding is similar to the UK first edition but has "THE RYERSON PRESS" at base of the spine and is minus the publisher's device on lower right corner of the upper cover. The title page for this issue states "THE RYERSON PRESS | TORONTO".  Additionally, the copyright page for this issue states simply "Copyright" whereas the UK first edition states  "Copyright 1922". 

[  i] Half-title
[  ii] Blank
[  iii] Title-page
[  iv] ‘Copyright | Manufactured in Great Britain’
[  v] Dedication
[  vi] Blank
[  vii] Preface
[  viii] Blank
[ix-x] Contents
[  1] Divisional title ‘BOOK I | PARADISO’
[  2] Blank
[3-139] Text
[140] Blank
[141] Divisional title ‘BOOK II | INFERNO’
[142] Blank
[143-244] Text
[245] Divisional title ‘BOOK III | PURGATORIO’
[246] Note
[247-368] Text

- Preface
- Book I - Paradiso
- Book II - Inferno
- Book III - Purgatorio




Manuscript.  Book I – Book III.  In Leah Hirsig’s hand as dictated to her by Aleister Crowley, with a few pages in the hand of Aleister Crowley.  Pages:  1053.  Warburg Institute Collection.




W. Collins Sons & Co., Ltd., London, 1922.

+ E. P. Dutton & Co., New York, 1923.
+ Dove Press, Malton, Ontario, Canada, 1970.
+ University Books, New York, 1970.
+ Samuel Weiser, New York, 1970.
+ Sphere Books, London, 1972.
+ Lancer Books, New York, 1972.
+ Gordon Press, New York, 1974.
+ Samuel Weiser, New York, 1978.
+ Samuel Weiser, Maine, 1985.
+ Samuel Weiser, Maine, 1987.


Gerald Yorke, A Bibliography of the Works of Aleister Crowley (Expanded and Corrected by Clive Harper from Aleister Crowley, the Golden Dawn and Buddhism:  Reminiscences and Writings of Gerald Yorke, Keith Richmond, editor, The Teitan Press, York Beach, ME, 2011, p. 49.


Personal observation of the item. 


Comments by

     I have myself made extensive and elaborate studies of the effects of indulgence in stimulants and narcotics. (See my The Psychology of Hashish, Cocaine, The Green Goddess, The Diary of a Drug Fiend etc.) I have a vast quantity of unpublished data. I am convinced that personal idiosyncrasy counts for more in this matter than all the other factors put together. The philosophical phlegmatic temperament of the Chinese finds opium sympathetic. But the effect of opium on a vivacious, nervous, mean, cowardly Frenchman, on an Englishman with his congenital guilty conscience or on an American with his passion for pushing everything to extremes is very different; the drug is almost certain to produce disaster.
     The Confessions of Aleister Crowley.  New York, NY.  Hill and Wang, 1969.  Page 490.


     I asked the Yi King in May of 1922 what would happen to me in England, whither I was bound. I got the 21st Hexagram, which means the open manifestation of one’s purpose. I was, in fact, able to re-enter public life after years of seclusion. It means “union by gnawing”, which I understood as bidding me to expect to spend my time in persevering efforts to establish relations with various people who could be useful to me, but not to expect to drop into success or to find the obstacles insuperable. This, too, came true. The comment in the Yi King promises successful progress and advises recourse to law. My progress was beyond my utmost hopes and I found myself forced to begin several lawsuits. The further comment describes the successive phases of the affair. The first phase shows its subject fettered and without resource. During my first month in England I was penniless, without proper clothes to wear, and obliged to walk miles to save the cost of a telephone call or an omnibus. In the second phase one suddenly finds everything easy. All one’s plans succeed. This, too, occurred. The third phase shows a man getting to grips with the real problems; he meets some rebuffs, has some disappointments, but makes no mistakes. The third stage of my campaign could not be better described. In phase four one gets down to work at one’s task, aided by financial advances and contracts to do work of the kind one wants. This was fulfilled by my being commissioned to write The Diary of a Drug Fiend and the present book, as well as several things for the English Review.
     The Confessions of Aleister Crowley.  New York, NY.  Hill and Wang, 1969.  Pages 630-631.


     My third string was to publish new books. Sullivan had suggested my trying Grant Richards, firstly with a plan for marketing the existing stock, and secondly with a proposal to write my memoirs. He promised to put in a good word for me as he knew Grant Richards well and was influential as being a man of sound business and literary judgment. I therefore called and made my proposals. But after some consideration, Grant Richards could not see his way to accept my terms. I think we were both reluctant to part; and one night I was inspired to try him with a third artificial minnow. I would write a shocker on the subject which was catering to the hysteria and pururience of the sex-crazed public: the drug traffic insanity. It provided a much needed variation from the “white slave” traffic. I proposed as a title The Diary of a Drug Fiend and sketched out a synopsis of its contents on a sheet of notepaper. This was mostly bluff. I had not really any clear idea of my story. I took this round to Grant Richards, who said it was not in his line. I asked him to suggest a likely firm. He said Hutchinson or Collins. Neither name meant anything to me. I gave Collins the first chance simply because he was on my way home.
     Invited to interview the responsible man, I found myself wondering who he was — I had surely met him before. He shared my feeling and was the first to discover the source. Over fifteen years earlier he had been on the staff of a paper called What’s On belonging to my old acquaintance Robert Haslam and at one time edited by poor crazy Dartnell.
     The gods had certainly started a new drama. The accident of this man, J. D. Beresford his name is, being the literary advisor of Collins probably made all the difference to the fate of the book. The synopsis was accepted enthusiastically and I obtained the pledges of money and advances, as per the “Yi” forecast, to the extend of a sixty-pound advance and a contract on much better terms than a new author could have hoped.
     I contracted to deliver the manuscript within a month. My idea was to rush the book through as a suitable for holiday reading. I wired to Paris for the Ape, who hurried over. We sat down at once to work. She takes my dictation in long hand, and it was therefore some “stunt” to have written the 121,000 words in 27 days, 12 3/4 hours. Mrs Marshall, the best typist I ever employed — she had worked for me off and on since ’98 — could hardly believe her eyes as one stack of manuscript came tumbling on the top of another. It gave me a chance to boost the Law of Thelema. I was able to show how the application of the principles increases efficiency as the profane deem impossible.
     Beresford was delighted with the manuscript and in high hopes of making a big hit. Unfortunately, my plan for publishing the book in August was not adopted. For various reasons they kept it hanging about till November. This annoyed me greatly. I expected its publication to arouse a tempest in the teapot around which the old women of criticism nod and talk scandal. I wanted to be on the spot when the fur began to fly, so as to give as good as I got. However, the gods have their own ideas.

     The Confessions of Aleister Crowley.  New York, NY.  Hill and Wang, 1969.  Pages 895-896.


     Besides The Diary of a Drug Fiend and my autohagiography I had contracted with Collins for the publication of Simon Iff. By this they pledged themselves to pay me an advance equivalent to the subscription sales of The Drug Fiend. They promised to let me have this before November 9th.
     The Confessions of Aleister Crowley.  New York, NY.  Hill and Wang, 1969.  Page 910.


     Mr. Crowley has not the literary fascination of a De Quincey or the power and stark realism of a Zola.  His most conspicuous gift is an effervescent imagination, an exuberant diction; and in the rhapsodies, despairs, and regeneration of Sir Peter and Lady Pendragon, ardent devotees of cocaine and “heroin,” retailed in a “Paradiso” (by Sir Peter), an Inferno (by his wife), and a “Purgatorio” (by Sir Peter), we certainly do not reach, though he avers it to be a :true story,” any impression of a real human experience.  They roam about Paris and Europe, palpitating at first with “internal ecstasy and the intoxicating sense that the whole world admired and envied us.”  They “had sprung in one leap to be coterminous with the Universe,” and so on’ then they sank into “boundless bliss” but drifting “down the dark and sluggish river of inertia towards the stagnant, stinking morass of insanity”; and through the horrors of despair they reach at last the Abbey of Thelema, where diminution of doses and dissertation on life and its meanings, control of the will, and the ‘credo’ of a Gnostic and a Catholic Church of Light, Life, Love and Liberty give them mastery of the will and of degenerating emotion; and the belief that there is nothing in nature, even drugs, which cannot be used for our benefit.  The book teems both with an immense fertility of incidents and idea; and with an amazingly rich crop of rhetoric.  It is impossible to say that at any moment in the career of Peter and his wife do we seem to be in touch with reality.  It is all a phantasmagoria of ecstasies, despairs, and above all verbiage.
—The Times Literary Supplement, 16 November 1922.


     “I got another packet and put it in my mouth.  He went wild and clutched me by the hair, and forced open my jaws with his finger and thumb.  I struggled and kicked and scratched, but he was too strong.  He got it out and put it in his own mouth.  Then he hit me in the face as I sat.”  This extract is from the diary of a young woman who has the cocaine habit.  As she starts by chanting “O thou fragrance of sweet flowers, that art wafted over blue fields of air!  I adore thee, Evoe!  I adore thee, I.A.O.!” there seems a slight falling off in her style—which only goes to bear out the argument of the whole and to show that these good drugs, as masters, do not exactly improve our manners, whatever they may do as servants.  Mr. Crowley suddenly leaves these slightly disgusting surroundings, and removes his young people to a wondrous place of treatment mainly by addresses and incantation.  He declares that the place exists on this carnal globe, and is willing to act as an intermediary should any reader habitually breakfast on heroin and desire to return to bacon and eggs.  There is a certain compelling power about the descriptions of degradation.  They have a truer ring than the ultra-fantastic patches—although these are credible enough as a rough translation into the speech of every day from a language only heard and understood under frightful and inhuman, if ecstatic conditions.
—The Observer, 10 December 1922.


     Drug-taking, to judge from The Diary of a Drug Fiend (by Aleister Crowley.  Collins.  7s. 6d.( seems singularly uninteresting.  But, then, I happen most emphatically to dislike losing control over my mental faculties, and the great attraction of drugs appears to be the creation in the mind of a false suggestion of wonderful power and pleasure—until the virtue goes out of them and they produce no effect whatever, save a restless craving, unless doses are taken regularly.
     The one excuse for writing such a book as this is that is should hold out some hope to the victims of this vice; and this Aleister Crowley does, describing the theories, way of living, and scenery of a spot to which the hero-villain and heroine-villain go, to be brought back to sanity by the discovery of their true work in life.
     It is not a pleasing book, but Mr. Crowley invites anyone interested in the system of training he describes to communicate with him.  Doubtless there must be many victims, and relatives of victims, of this and other crazes who will accept his invitation.
—The Daily Herald, 15 November 1922.


     Some time ago, when our highbrows, or, as they area pleased to call themselves, our intelligentsia, were all praising James Joyce’s “Ulysses,” I ventured to put it in the pillory as the pinnacle and apex of lubricity and obscenity. But the praise of our highbrows has made it possible for a respectable publisher to hurl into the British home a novel which is modeled upon that scabrous outrage. There are two methods of dealing with pornographic fiction. One is to ignore it lest publicity should inflate its sales. The other method is to raise public opinion so effectively that the book is either withdrawn from circulation by the publisher or is confiscated by public authority.

The Liberty of Art
     There is much to be said for the first method. No critic ought to puff a vile book by advertising its vileness. Moreover, no critic ought to narrow the liberty of literature or fetter the art of the artist. If there be a doubt, freedom ought to be given the benefit. On the other hand, if pornographic novels are ignored they tend to become more pornographic. They quickly expand their licence. The effect upon young writers is injurious, for they are tempted to mistake salacity for modernity, obscenity for daring, indecency for independence. Thus the art of the artist is doubly damaged. When the public revolt against the revolting, all artists are tarred with the same brush. The liberty of art is unreasonably curtailed. The pendulum swings from the extreme of licence to the extreme of prudery. And the profession of letters is smirched and soiled by its association with moral lepers.

Ecstatic Eulogy
     I have therefore determined to adopt the second method, and to do my best to secure the immediate extirpation of “The Diary of a Drug Fiend” (Collins,7 /6 net) by Aleister Crowley. It is a novel describing the orgies of vice practised by a group of moral degenerates who stimulate their degraded lusts by doses of cocaine and heroin. Although there is an attempt to pretend that the book is merely a study of the depravation caused by cocaine, in reality it is an ecstatic eulogy of the drug and of its effects upon the body and the mind. A cocaine trafficker would welcome it as a recruiting agent which would bring him thousands of new victims. . . .

Cunning Blasphemies
     The characters of the novel are repulsive. . . . The gospel preached by the book is this: “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.” The obscenities are flavoured with cunning blasphemies. . .
     There is even a parody of the Creed. At the baser and more bestial horrors of the book it is impossible, even if it were desirable, to hint.
     It may be asked how such a book could secure publisher. Well, few publishers have time to read t the books which they publish, and even their readers some times read them hastily. I imagine that this book secure publication in the guise of an exposure of the evils wrought by drugs. But its true character is stamped on it in spite of its ingenious use of innuendo and artifice. It is a book that ought to be burned. Why lock up cocaine-traffickers if we tolerate cocaine novels
—The Sunday Express, James Douglas, 19 November 1922.



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