Masks of the Illuminati (32 page)

Sir John looked at the title of the lecture: “The Soldier and the Hunchback.” If Verey was the hunchback, who was the soldier? Himself? Jones? Crowley? Or was he attributing too much prescience to Enemy Intelligence? The title might have no personal meaning at all.

One shelf was labeled ORDO TEMPLI ORIENTIS—the name of the clandestine Masonic order which owned this bookstore and required all members to sign three copies of that nihilistic Act of Faith beginning, “There is no God but Man.” Sir John examined this curiously: most of the material was in the form of pamphlets or old books by such authors as Karl Kellner, Adam Weishaupt, Leopold Engels, P. B. Randolph, Theodore Reuss—almost all of it in German—but there were also several books by Aleister Crowley himself.

Sir John picked out a Crowley volume entitled, with Brazen effrontery,
The Book of Lies
. Opening it, he found the title page:

Despite himself, Sir John grinned. This was a variation on the Empedoclean paradox in logic, which consists of the question: “Empedocles, the Cretan, says that everything Cretans say is a lie; is Empedocles telling the truth?” Of course, if Empedocles
is
telling the truth, then—since his statement “everything Cretans say is a lie” is the truth—he must also be lying. On the other hand, if Empedocles is lying, then everything Cretans say is not a lie, and he might be telling the truth. Crowley’s title page was even more deliberately perverse: if the book is
“also
falsely called Breaks,” then (because of the “also”) the original title is false, too, and it is
not
a book of lies at all. But, on the other hand, since it is the “falsifications … of the one
thought … which is itself untrue,” it is the negation of the untrue and, therefore, true. Or was it?

Sir John turned to the first chapter and found it consisted of a single symbol, the question mark:

Well, compared with the title, that was at least brief. Sir John turned the page to the second chapter and found equal brevity:

What kind of a joke was this? Sir John turned to Chapter 3, and his head spun:

The first two statements were the ultimate in nihilism; but the third sentence, carrying nihilism one step further, brought in the Empedoclean paradox again, for it contradicted itself. If “nothing is not,” then something
is
….

What else was in this remarkable tome? Sir John started flipping pages and abruptly found himself facing, at Chapter 77, a photograph of Lola Levine. It was captioned “L.A.Y.L.A.H.” The photo and the caption made up the entire chapter. Lola was seen from the waist up and was shamelessly naked, although as a concession to English morality her hair hung down to cover most of her breasts.

Sir John, on a hunch, counted cabalistically.
Lamed
was 30, plus
Aleph
is 1, plus
Yod
is 10, plus second
Lamed
is 30, plus second
Aleph
is 1 again, plus
Hé
is 5; total, 77, the number of the chapter. And Laylah was not just a
loose transliteration of Lola; it was the Arabic word for “night.” And 77 was the value of the curious Hebrew word which meant either “courage” or “goat”:
Oz
. The simple photo and caption were saying, to the skilled Cabalist, that Lola was the priestess incarnating the Night of Pan, the dissolution of the ego into void….

Sir John decided to buy
The Book of Lies;
it would be interesting, and perhaps profitable, to gain further insight into the mind of the Enemy, however paradoxical and perverse might be its expressions. He approached the counter, and found with discomfort that the clerk seated there was Lola Levine herself. Since he had just been looking at a photo of her, naked from the waist up, he blushed and stammered as he said, “I’d like to buy this.”

“One pound six, sir,” Lola said, with no more flicker of expression than any other clerk. Sir John realized that it had been nearly three years since the one occasion on which they had met on the Earth-plane; she had no reason to remember him. Then, was it possible that all the astral visions in which she tormented and attempted to seduce him were the product of his own impure imagination? Or were those visions as real as they seemed, and was she merely a consummate actress and hypocrite? It was the metaphysical equivalent of the Empedoclean paradox.

A stout, elderly woman with a Cornish accent asked Lola, “I’m planning to stay for the lecture. Is it pronounced
Crouly
or
Crowley?”

“It is pronounced Crowly,” said a voice from the door. “To remind you that I’m holy. But my enemies say
Crouly
, in wish to treat me foully.”

Sir John turned and saw Aleister Crowley, bowing politely to the Cornish woman as he completed his jingle. Crowley was a man of medium height, dressed in a conservative pinstripe suit jarringly offset by a gaudy blue scarf in place of the tie and with a green Borsalino hat
worn at a rakish angle. It was the outfit an artist on the Left Bank might wear, to show that he had become successful; it was definitely eccentric for London.

The Cornish woman stared. “Are you really the Great Magician, as people say?”

“No,” said Crowley at once. “I am the most dedicated enemy of the Great Magician.” And he swept past imperiously.

The Cornish lady gasped. “What did he mean by that?” she asked nobody in particular.

Sir John understood, but wasted no time trying to explain. Crowley was heading for the lecture room and Sir John followed him closely, wanting a seat up front where he could observe the Master of the M.M.M. most closely. The paradox had been typical of Crowley’s style: he referred, obviously, to the Gnostic teaching that the sensory universe was a delusion, created by the Devil, to prevent humanity from seeing the Undivided Light of Divinity itself. A strange joke to come from a Satanist; but, of course, some Gnostics had taught that Jehovah, creator of the material universe,
was
the Devil, the Great Magician. The Bible begins with
Beth
, according to this teaching, because
Beth
is the letter of the Magician in the Tarot, the Lord of the Abyss of Hallucinations….

The lecture room was filling rapidly and Sir John scampered into a front-row seat. He noticed that Crowley had lowered his head and closed his eyes, obviously preparing himself for the lecture by some method of invocation or meditation. Behind him on the wall was a large silver star with an eye in its center, a symbol associated (Sir John knew) with both the goddess Isis and the Dog Star, Sirius.

“Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law,” Crowley intoned suddenly, without raising his head. Then he looked about the room whimsically.

“It is traditional in the great Order which I humbly represent,” he went on, “to begin all ceremonies and
lectures with that phrase. Like Shakespeare’s
Ducdame
, it is a great banishing ritual against fools, most of whom leave the room at once on hearing it uttered. Observing no stampede to the doors I can only wonder if a miracle is occurring tonight and I am speaking, for once, to an English audience that does not consist mostly of fools.”

Sir John smiled in spite of himself.

“My topic tonight,” Crowley went on, “is the soldier and the hunchback. Those are poetic terms I regularly employ to designate the two most interesting punctuation marks in general use throughout Europe—the exclamation point and the question mark. Please do not look for profundities at this point. I call the exclamation point ‘the soldier’ only out of poetic whimsy, because it stands there, erect, like a soldier on guard duty. The question mark I call the ‘hunchback,’ similarly, only because of its shape. I repeat again: there is no profundity intended,
yet.”

Sir John found himself thinking of the first two chapters of
The Book of Lies
, which said only “?” and “!”

The question mark or hunchback, Crowley went on, appeared in all the basic philosophical problems that haunt mankind: Why are we here? Who or what put us here? What if anything can we do about it? How do we get started? Where shall wisdom be found? Why was I born? Who am I? “Unless you are confronted with immediate survival problems, due to poverty or to the deliberate choice of an adventurous life, these hunchbacks will arise in your mind several times in an ordinary hour,” Crowley said. “They are generally pacified or banished by reciting the official answers of the tribe into which you were born, or simply deciding that they are unanswerable.” Some however, Crowley went on, cannot rest in either blind tradition or resigned agnosticism, and must seek answers for themselves, based on experience. Ordinary people, he said, are in a sense totally asleep and do not even know it;
those who persist in asking the questions can be described as struggling toward wakefulness.

The soldier, or exclamation point, he continued, represents the moment of insight or intuition in which a question is answered, as in the expressions “Aha!” or “Eureka!”

“I now present you, gratis, two of the nastiest hunchbacks I know,” Crowley said, smiling wickedly. “These two are presented to every candidate who comes to our Order seeking the Light. Here they are:

“Number One:
Why, of all the mystical and occult teachers in the world, did you come to me?

“Number Two:
Why, of all the days in your life, on this particular day?

“That is all you need to know,” Crowley said. “I might as well leave the platform now, since, if you can answer those questions, you are already Illuminated; and if you cannot, you are such dunces that further words are wasted on you. But I will take mercy on you and give you the rest of the lecture, anyway.”

Crowley went on to define the state of modern philosophy (post-David Hume) as “an assembly of hunchbacks.” Everything has been called into question; every axiom has been challenged—“including Euclid’s geometry among modern mathematicians”; nothing is certain anymore. On all sides, Crowley said, we see only more hunchbacks—questions, questions, questions.

Traditional mysticism, Crowley continued, is a regiment of soldiers. The mystic, he said, having attained an “Aha!” or “Eureka!” experience—a sudden intuitive insight into the invisible reality behind the subjective deceptions of the senses—is apt to be so delighted with himself that he never asks another question and stops thinking entirely. Out of this error, Crowley warned, flows dogmatic religion, “a force almost as dangerous to true mysticism as it is to scientific or political freedom.”

The path of true Illumination, Crowley proceeded, walking
to a blackboard at the right of the room, does
not
consist of one intuitive insight after another. It is not a parade of soldiers, “like this,” he said, writing on the board: