symptom of the disease of the same individual is brought out in
my poem, "To A New Born Child". The editor protested that it was
rather rough luck on a kid to predict such misfortunes for it.
In other words, he had not the remotest idea what the poem was
about. Considering that this particular editor is quite justly
reputed to be far and away the best man in England in the matter
of appreciating first-class work, it is perfectly
incomprehensible to me that he should be such an arrant
— The Confessions of Aleister Crowley.
New York, NY. Hill and Wang, 1969. Page 689.