by Robert Irwin
It was Alice who was shaking me awake.
‘You have been talking in your sleep. You are not supposed to sleep here. What have you seen?’
‘Nothing. It was a stupid dream.’
But Alice then gave me this schoolmistressy lecture on how if one slept in Horapollo House in the daytime, one did not sleep alone, for the daytime was also when the larvae choose to sleep. The larvae, half-souls of those dead who have insufficient strength of will to detach themselves from terrestrial existence, dream in this room and elsewhere in the house. If one sleeps with them, the madness of their dreaming and their hopeless longing to be alive once more will infect one’s dreams. It is like taking dictation from hundreds of dead men and women talking in their sleep and, if they perceive that they cannot ever really re-enter the world that you are in, then they will try to persuade you to join them in theirs.
Obviously there was a gloatful note in Alice’s voice as she described the horrors of the unseen to me. But I also thought that I could detect a note of yearning as if she actually wished to be embraced by the shadowy larvae. She was also gloating when she told me that she would have to record my nap in the library in her diary. I told her that it must be a really dull diary if she was putting things like that in it. But then, come to think of it, my diary is not exactly a rip-roaring adventure story, if I am recording my tiffs with Alice in it. I think that one of Alice’s problems is that she is jealous of my newly permed hair. It makes her wild fuzz look even worse than ever.
So now I sit alone in the library once more – alone that is except for Pyewhacket, the writing hand, and my diary, who are always with me these days. I think the diary is a ‘who’, for my book feels more and more like a person to me – my unreliable, hypocritical, little brother. The word on larvae is quite interesting. It seems that they are similar to but different from the Qlippoth. From what little I can gather from my reading and odd remarks by Lodge members it seems that the Qlippoth does not feed off dreams like the larvae do. Instead it draws its power from sexual fantasies and masturbation images. It is especially dangerous to repeat a masturbation fantasy, for the next time that scantily-clad young woman or, perhaps, some great hunk of a man appears in the mind’s eye, there will be something of the Qlippoth in that image and in the longer run, such fantasy images – curvy, pouting, swaying and beckoning – become wholly the slaves of the Qlippoth. The consequence of this is that the fantasist is no longer the master of his imaginary harem. Instead he has the Qlippoth in his head and, through becoming a slave of his fantasies, he too will become a slave of the Qlippoth.
After dinner I went to bed early with a book. Last week, bored with a continuous diet of Aleister Crowley and Dennis Wheatley, I went into a book shop, looking for something else to read. I ended up buying a copy of Howard’s End by E.M. Forster, which I have now started reading. It’s not my sort of book, so I have no idea why I bought it or why I am reading it now. My desire to read this book must be caused, I suppose, by some event in the future. Alternatively, I conceive that it is possible that I do things which have no motive or reason behind them. It could be that, like Sally was saying, causation is utterly phoney. From now onwards, whenever I find myself doing something I cannot explain, I shall record the inexplicable action here in my diary and then alertly wait to see if the future will throw up the explanation. In the meantime, all I can say about Howard’s End is that it is an extremely boring book.
Reading a novel is a bit like being in the Lodge. Lodge members keep telling me to stop asking questions. They want me to suspend my critical faculties and commit myself completely to the Lodge. This, it seems to me, is like reading a mystery novel. The pleasure of reading the novel will be spoilt if, all the time one is reading it one is conscious that it is a novel, and one keeps analysing its narrative strategies and one keeps asking awkward questions like, ‘Why don’t the hero and heroine go to the police?’ Mind you, the only mystery about Howard’s End is how famous it became. I cannot see what Forster wanted to say in it. But, to return to the Lodge, it wants to become the story of my life. The attraction of this is that at least my life will have some kind of plot, whereas, if I just did my PhD and got an academic job and got married, and had children and got old, it would be just one thing after another and no plot. It has taken me ages to write all this down. I wish I could hire a secretary to write my diary for me. Come to that, I wish the secretary could live all the events described in my diary for me, so that I could just lie here and read about them later.
Monday, June 19
Slept badly, dreaming of Julian and his brightly polished gun again.
I had thought it possible that by now the trouble at the LSE might have eased off and the library might be open again. This proved not to be the case. Instead I wasted a morning sitting on the steps of the LSE listening to a teach-in on academic freedom. Who can get interested in a subject like ‘academic freedom’? The only freedoms that matter are things like freedom from conventional morality, freedom to travel on the astral, and freedom from old age and death. All this political stuff is just dreck. At the moment I just seem to proceed from boredom to boredom – the boredom of reading E.M. Forster, the boredom of the politics of the LSE and, soon, the boredom of a date with Maud. Going out with Maud is like dragging a cow to market. How much longer do I have to string her along before I can deliver her into the hands of the Master? People at the sit-in were looking curiously at me and for a while I thought it might be because they could read my Satanic thoughts. Then I realised that it was just my hair which was attracting their attention.
In the evening I met Maud at the Statue of Eros. We went to see the film of Camelot. This was Maud’s choice. Her friend, Phyllis, had recommended it. Once the film had started, it was pleasant not to have to talk to Maud. Camelot consisted of a lot of middle-aged tunes about being middle-aged, having affairs and looking back on young love. I did not bother with watching it much. I spent part of the time contentedly compiling my personal list of the ten worst films ever made: The Carpetbaggers, Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines, Wonderwall, Genevieve, Il Deserto Rosso, Blow Up, Youngblood Hawke, Smashing Time, anything with Norman Wisdom in it and Camelot.
Maud came out of the cinema humming ‘Where Are the Simple Joys of Maidenhood?’ Although she really liked the songs, she had been flummoxed by the film’s flashback-structure and had not understood that at the beginning of the film Arthur (Richard Harris) was looking back on how, as a young man, he first met Guinevere (Vanessa Redgrave). I suppose that if one does not go to the cinema very much it is easy to be foxed by flashbacks. Her only other criticism of the wearisome, soggy mess we had been sitting through was that ‘the fights weren’t up to much’. On the plus side, she liked Mordred, played by a smirking, twitchy David Hemmings. I thought this was original of Maud, until I understood that she had not realised that he was supposed to be a ‘baddie’. She just thought Hemmings looked very nice. I think Maud is probably incapable of regarding anyone who looks nice, plus having lots of nice hair, as potentially evil – not that she is capable of articulating that opinion. I have to think it for her. Maud does not have articulated, general opinions and she is not used to critically examining a film – or a book, or anything.
Sally would have hated the film – this despite her craze for King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. For Sally, the meaning of Arthur was tied up with Glastonbury being at the heart of the Western Mystery Tradition and with the Grail Quest being a kind of pathworking in which one is questing for the ‘inner self’. Sally regarded the Arthurian legend as something that is being re-enacted in our own times. President Kennedy was a reincarnation of Arthur, while Jacqueline Kennedy is Guinevere and together they presided over an American Camelot. Kennedy is the Rex Quondam et Futurus, ‘The Once and Future King’, who, having been murdered by Mordred, will return when the world in crisis most needs him. Sally’s fantasia about the reborn King Arthur never made any sense to me and, to take just one li
ttle thing, Jackie hanging out with Onassis does not match up at all with Guinevere entering a convent. None of this has anything to do with the musical, by the way.
I saw Maud back to her flat and got a big messy kiss on the doorstep. In view of what is coming to her, I could almost feel sorry for her.
Tuesday, June 20
Another morning and afternoon observing the playground. Who could have guessed that sociological observation could have a refined charm such that it might actually become the preferred pursuit of the aesthete? Yet it is so. It is peculiarly sweet to drink to forget the bitterness of adulthood and a fierce joy in trampling the fences which the adults have made for their protection. How the tears of children – their plump little faces studded with pearls – play havoc with the most hardened heart! Their laughter mocks the weariness of the world. The eyes of the watcher on the edge play over the soft, downy skin of the children, their long-lashed, trusting eyes and their chubby, pumping limbs, and the watcher feels himself melting, longing to be drawn into their little world, so touching in its small concerns. He is purified in their soft, sweet breath. Children are wise with the wisdom of innocence. They are aware, without even knowing that they are aware, that the rose can only be plucked from a hedge of thorns. Pleasure can only be found in the midst of pain. The taste of childish sweat is simple, yet refined in its simplicity. There is something peculiarly poignant in dying young … and something exquisite in filling one’s mouth with childish fluids and spitting up at the dark and rolling heavens.
Pyewhacket again. I do not pay any attention to him.
Now that Felton is satisfied that Maud and I are properly launched, he seems to have reverted to holding regular Tuesday and Thursday diary sessions. Today’s session was full of surprises. The first that Granville was there, waiting for me to inspect his diary. By now I had forgotten that this had been promised. Granville passed his diary to me, I passed mine to Felton and Felton passed me a bundle of money. Then Felton and I set to reading. I was only allowed to look at the two pages in Granville’s diary dealing with that one particular evening with Sally. What I read was quite strange:
April 14
That night vision of the Washer at the Ford again. I awoke thinking of Sally. This was the third morning running. K.O.K.I.X. has Leo on the ascendant and Leo is on the cusp of my sixth house (Virgo, the bowels). I performed the seventh-degree operation on the body of the Hawk-Headed One. I then performed the ritual of banishment. It was useless however. I descended to examine Palliser’s table. It has been long in the sun and the patina on the top has faded slightly. Its grain is somewhat pronounced. The grain on the leaves matches. Obviously I cannot afford to pay what it is worth. We shall just have to see. I put the chandelier in the washing-machine. All the while I kept busy, I thought of her. First she is a hippy slut. Secondly I love her. She is a bunny rabbit. I went over the accounts thinking of her. Clearly nothing may be done that imperils Peter’s status. But Peter need never know. I lunched at Sheakeys. Back at the shop I performed the coffin meditation. The chandelier has come out nicely. While I was at lunch the Chinese rug was delivered. Its colours include cherry, apricot and yellow. I am certain that it is pre-twentieth century. The problem will be to find the buyer who can see that too. Thoughts of that girl crowded in upon me. I left the shop. I went to that pub in Pimlico. There was a woman at the bar. I used the Gaze upon her. She came to me. After a few moments of conversation for appearance’s sake, I made her follow me into the Gents. I had thought that her sucking me off might clear my head. It was not so.
Sally is a hippy slut. She is also an unattainable Snow Queen. I love her kookiness. I love the fact that she despises me. By now Peter is on his way to the lecture at Horapollo House. As I write these lines my hand trembles. I have just realised that there is no need for me to be there too. I will visit Sally. I have no idea what will happen.
I rang the bell. Her face was hard and hostile. I told her that I happened to be passing. She did not believe me. She said something polite and tried to close the door on me. Then I told her that the real reason for coming to see her was that Peter was in danger. She showed me into her room. It was full of hippy kitsch. I made myself as comfortable as I could. She wanted to know about the danger Peter was in. I told her the truth that it was I who was in danger. I would die if I could not have her. She was unmoved, my darling slut. I would rather she had given herself to me of her own free will, but this was not going to happen. I used the Gaze and she came forward to undo my trousers. “Wow, gaiters!” She was excited by them and made me keep them on while we made love. Afterwards, as we lay beside one another panting, she asked me if I liked the smell of my own farts.
A few minutes later she wanted me to leave. I told her again that she was adorable. She turned a cold ear to me. She told me that if I did love her, I should never tell Peter. She told me to go away. I must never return. Why did she ask me that question? Did I fart while making love to her? It is anguish to me to think of it. I cannot bear to think of my future life without my darling slut.
I was not allowed to read any more. Granville, who had been watching me coldly, took his diary back. I had at first thought that the diary entry might have been faked – just as the dog had been trained in advance to find Granville the previous time. Granville had plenty of time to fake those pages after all. I would have liked the story of his magical seduction of Sally to have been a lie, but, in fact, I was pretty sure that this was not the case. ‘Do you like the smell of your own farts?’ was one of Sally’s questions-of-the-week that April. My feelings about what I had read were confused. In principle, Sally was nothing to me now, since we had split up. Even before we split up, she was always a free agent, free to sleep with whoever she chose. That was no big deal. On the other hand, on this occasion, she was not free. Confusing, but I suppose it is not really important.
Felton passed my diary to Granville and showed him a page. Then,
‘See to it,’ he said and Granville left the room.
If we are all going to be reading each others’ diaries then it will be like living in a nudist colony with everything dangling out. Felton took me through my recent diary entries. First he was grumbling about how he had been unable to find the school I was working at in his A to Z and he was muttering about how my diary had made him curious to see these little children whom I had evoked so vividly in my writing. Then, he pounced on, ‘I can relate to what you are saying about adrenalin’ and harangued me on the hideous imprecision of the verb I had used. Did I mean that I actually agreed with Maud? If so, why not say so? Or did I merely mean that I could understand what she was saying without agreeing with it? Or did I vaguely empathise with what she had said without even fully understanding it? Or did I have something to contribute on the subject of adrenalin without necessarily agreeing with her contribution? Was I ‘relating’ emotionally or intellectually, or was some other kind of relationship being posited? Felton went on and on until I felt quite dizzy contemplating the multiple levels of unintended meaning and ambiguity in what I had written.
While Felton was talking, the door swung open behind me. He raised his eyebrows, but continued talking. I did not dare look back. Felton abruptly stopped nit-picking at my use of language.
‘I can see that I do not emerge as an impressive figure in the pages of your diary. Ah well … Years ago I was faced with a great test, the greatest test of my life … which I failed. You, when your testing-time comes, must not fail.’ Felton was speaking rapidly and urgently. ‘People come to the Lodge for all sorts of reasons. Not all those reasons are worthy ones, but that does not matter. Some come to scoff, but then stay to be converted. Others come to us because they hope that the Lodge will provide them with good business contacts, or sexual gratification, or simple entertainment that will brighten up their otherwise rather dull days. These are naive and mistaken motivations, but we can work with the people who have them. Some come to us because they are lonely. We provide these people with new friend
s – some visible, some invisible. But really only the End matters… . What I am saying, Non Omnis Moriar, is that you can speak the truth about your reason for kissing the hand of the Master. It does not matter what initially brought you into the Lodge. The only thing that matters is what we are going to make of you.’
What is all this rubbish? He has been reading the truth in my diaries for week after week. I was going to point this out to him, before asking him how much longer before the farcical chore of courting Maud could be concluded? I never got a chance to ask my question.
‘Charles dear, could I have a word?’ The voice was a woman’s.
‘Bridget, can’t it wait? As you can see, I am in the middle of a diary session with this young man.’
I turned round. Bridget was immensely tall and wiry, with thick black eyebrows, dark eyes and long white hair.
‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘The exorcism and the Shibboleth exercise will start in a few minutes and the matter is really rather private.’
‘Oh, very well. Oh Bridget, this is, as you must have guessed, Non Omnis Moriar. Non Omnis Moriar, this is my wife. Bridget’s name on the Path is Dolor Mundi. She is just back from a tour of our Lodges in the United States.’
I rose to shake hands with Bridget, before she went out with Felton into the corridor to confer. The door was not fully closed and I heard them muttering something about the Church of Satan, Anton La Vey and ‘that insufferable Mansfield woman’ and ‘all those groups which lost their way after the death of Crowley’. But what they were muttering was not so important to me. So Felton has a wife! And Felton is Charles Felton!