Satan Wants Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

Crowley did not rise from his armchair to greet Felton. Indeed he did not at first seem to register his visitor’s presence. He just sat there wheezing asthmatically and muttering to himself. Obese and jowly, Crowley was in his sixties when Felton met him. Crowley was to die on December 1st 1947. (‘Under the sign of Sagittarius,’ Felton added pointlessly.) Although Crowley at first appeared the prisoner of his own memories and reflections, Gerald drew him into conversation bit by bit and got him to acknowledge Felton’s presence. Crowley with a glass in his hand proved to be an animated host and set out to charm Felton with first tales from his youth and then a learned commentary on the true significance of the tarot.
    Where was this going? I was thinking that it was all a bit like one of those articles in The Reader’s Digest , entitled, ‘The Most Memorable Character I Ever Met.’ But suddenly Felton looked hard at me.
    ‘You remind me of Crowley.’
    I shrugged. I did not think that it was flattering to be compared to a wheezing, fat, old Satanist.
    But Felton apparently did. He was insistent,
    ‘You are a lot like him. It is nothing obvious. But there is something about your eyes. There is an admirable hardness there … but of course you are much prettier than he was.’
    With this Felton returned to his recollections. I was not reassured by Felton’s last observation. Are these diary-sessions and packets of money supposed to lead on to something which has got nothing to do with the esoteric? Anyway Felton’s recollections … Gradually, Crowley’s conversational animation had abated. Having muttered something about having to visit the bathroom, with difficulty he heaved himself out of the armchair and shuffled out of the room. Once Crowley was out of the door, Gerald nimbly leapt up and watered the decanter of wine that was on the table between them. The old man was giving himself another fix of heroin, he confided. Felton should be flattered. It meant that Crowley wanted to keep going and make an impression on his visitor.
    When Crowley reappeared, he was a little pale, but conversationally reanimated. Not long afterwards, Gerald pleaded another appointment and left them talking. Crowley had moved on to telling Felton about the Ordo Templi Orientis and its secret work in the world. It became obvious that Crowley wanted Felton to commit himself to him and to ask to become an initiate of the Ordo Templi Orientis. This was perhaps flattering. Nevertheless, from the dark hints that Crowley kept dropping, it was clear that probationership in the Order was a serious commitment, with various attendant ordeals and hours of special study. Felton had enjoyed dabbling in esoteric matters, but he had no intention of letting it take over his whole life. There was music and poetry and probably university studies to be taken up when he should be demobilised. And besides, charming though Crowley was, it was not clear that he had anything more than a fund of interesting stories to offer. Moreover, Felton thought of himself as a free spirit. It was surely not in his nature to become anyone’s disciple.
    In the end things grew awkward, as Crowley gave up dropping dark hints and asked Felton outright if he would become his disciple. Felton said that he needed time to think about it.
    ‘Time is what you shall have,’ said Crowley.
    In the barracks, a man lying on the bed next to Felton’s was laying out a hand of patience. At the far end of the room a group were trading bawdy limericks as they applied blanco to their webbing and used matches to melt boot-polish, so as to get a better shine. The limericks were getting on Felton’s nerves. He had to decide whether to venture out into the winter blackout and have Gerald Yorke introduce him to Aleister Crowley. It was exactly the same choice as before. Except that this time it was completely different. The first time round it had been Felton, the dabbler, idly debating with