In the desert each
impression is beaten into one's brain with what at first seems
maddening monotony. One feels starved; there are so few facts to
feed on. One has to pass through an abyss of boredom. At last
there comes a crisis. Suddenly the shroud is snatched away from
one's soul and one enters upon an entirely new kind of life, in
which one no longer regrets the titillation of the thoughts
which tumble over each other in civilized surroundings, each
preventing one undergoing the ordeal involved when it becomes
necessary to penetrate beneath the shadow-show to the secret
sanctuary of the soul. I have explained these things in some
detail in two essays, "The
Soul of the Desert" and "The Camel", which my
wanderings in the Sahara inspired.
— The Confessions of Aleister Crowley.
New York, NY. Hill and Wang, 1969. Pages 627-628.