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Aleister Crowley Diary Entry Thursday, 16 February 1922
1.0 A.M. 1/2 tablet dichlenel(?) and a glass of wine. My Molière became illegible within 10 minutes, yet I am awake still, bar a doubtful half-nap of a few minutes.
The mechanism of my insomnia is extremely interesting.
Tonight conditions for sleeping were all admirable. The bed is comfortable; my fatigue is great; and normal in all respects. My body is entirely at east and my mind far from all preoccupation. I cannot recall having thoughts of any special kind, such as worries, contemplations, plans. There has been no “train" of thought express, luggage, armoured, or repair! What happens is simply as follows: I feel myself sinking into sleep and am at the same instant impelled to some slight physical movement, usually to seek a more comfortable posture, or to scratch. The action is sufficient to remove me from the frontier of sleep. If I refuse to yield to the physical impulse it passes off; but when I again feel the sensation of approaching the Gates, it recurs, not necessarily or even usually in the same shape but with increased intensity.
1.21 A.M. Feeling my mental activity to have become very great, I "mak' siccar" (with a second 1/2 tablet of Dial). This episode must have recurred dozens of times in the 2 1/2 hours of insomnia. The only identifiable thought, by the way, in that period is the wish to observe and record the phenomena in question.
1.25. I return to Molière.
[afterthought—Despite the conditions, I feel very much rested, perhaps more so than if I had slept deeply throughout, and been awakened accidentally. While writing these last entries I have felt a curious wish to confide the secret of this whole experiment to T—— E—— on his arrival in the forest. I must think out why this should be.
9.12 A.M. Slept all night after only 3 or 4 repetitions of the torture called vigiliarum; and that despite a beginning of an asthmatic attack which is my animal’s way of asking for cocaine—Heroin which stops my bronchitis at once does not touch my asthma: leaves it worse than before if anything.
I feel fully rested, mind & body; lazy indeed, but without irritation or fatigue. And I feel no temptation to take heroin in order to acquire strength enough to get up. Things could hardly seem more favorable but of course they may be the prelude to all sorts of horrors.
12.0. Awake at last after several relapses.
3.0. P.M. Very dull damp and depressing. Crawled up the Roches D’Avon (?)—no enthusiasm, no vigor, no courage.
I note that the important part of the treatment is to increase the period of abstinence and as heroin postpones sleep, the best plan would be to be very rigid about curfew and allow a little latitude to Reveille.
3.5. Small sniff.
3.44. Big d[itt]o [sniff]. (N.B. This is my “bad day” as to cocaine and the weather, etc., etc.,—all conspire to depress me.
4.18. Medium sniff.
4.27. Symptoms so far unsatisfactory. There is a dull malaise, continued lack of any interest in anything, and the knowledge that Cocaine would put me right at once. Cocaine is barred altogether, of course. The reason is this. The hunger for it is strictly moral, and a man ought to be able to master his moral passions. Physical torture, on the other hand, simply throws the moral apparatus out of gear: one cannot be blamed for committing suicide or doing any other foolish act when the pain is so strong as to prevent the manifestation of the Will altogether.
I was slightly asthmatic, by the way, during my whole walk today. But I felt no temptation to take any Cocaine on that score. I am tempted strongly now, though, for I resent the tedium of my state. I want to smoke, eat, read, write, drink and sleep all at once; and I cannot settle to any one of these with the least enjoyment. The feeling resembles that of subconscious worry. But I am unable to worry about anything. My affairs, Leah [Leah Hirsig], old memories, nothing seems to matter. I want to be able to get into some positive state of mind, no odds on what subject; and I can’t. Only Cocaine could help me, and I won’t take it.
4.59. Medium. My feeling is that the safest course is to arrange a mild jag; sufficient to overcome my general lassitude, which is beginning to make me open to violent suggestion to throw the whole cure overboard.
5.15. Heavy with sleep, and on the verge of a “nice drunk”.
5.28. Small. I did not want this dose; but I want to take 7 in the 3 hours, so as not to diminish the ration too quickly. I want to take 6 doses tomorrow for prudence’ sake and yet to take one less than on the previous day. If I took 6 today and 6 tomorrow, I might feel that I was failing to make progress; while tomorrow it might well be that 5 were not enough to carry me over till Saturday.
5.49. Small. Routine—no impulse.
6.00. Medium " " [Routine—no impulse].
Programme for tomorrow:
Reveille not before 2.0 P.M.
Curfew 5.0 P.M. I n case of early sleep or waking—which may the Gods grant—I force myself to march to Melun or at least to Bois-le-Rio.
10.40 PM. Before dinner I went to Thibault to get a small and commonplace printing job done. The ignorance, stupidity and obstinacy of the specialist (produced ad hoc from the bowels of the comptoria [?]) nearly drove me insane. At dinner I was dropping with sleep, an absolute agony of desire. Coffee and 2 Vieux Marcs revived me, and I took my walk in perfectly normal bien-être, not in the least intoxicated, but feeling as I used to in 1896 on a bright May morning in a new suit, strolling Trinity Street.
I then went to the Cafe and had 3 Mandarins (I do not mean that I committed a felony on the persons of three Chinamen of high official rank). I practiced billiards. I have not touched a cue for two years, or been in good form for eight. I was amazed to find myself doing better than I have ever done in my life. All classes of stroke seemed equally easy. I was not trying particularly to do my best, yet I ran off a break of 22 from a leave of no remarkable promise. Astounding! At this moment I feel quite normal and not a day over thirty!
I wish to note (before I forget it) that one of the nuisances connected with the legends current as to the effects of drug-taking is that one is apt to attribute any and every unpleasant symptom to addiction or abstinence. Just as the man, who fell downstairs while reading George Eliot and broke his leg, jumped to the conclusion that the fracture of the femur was due to the fall, so I, after a bad night and a weary walk in wet weather, wonder whether my asthma, depression and other disagreeable phenomena are due to a) lack of cocaine (b) too much cocaine (c) too much heroin (d) too little heroin (e) my Freudian attitude toward drugs (f) my reaction against said attitude (g) etc. h) etc. The fundamental trouble about drugs is that they tend to obsess one, just as in the days of Christianity people always referred anything that happened to the prophecies in Daniel, Matthew XXIV, or the Apocalypse!
These considerations, however, have this effect at least; that I am no longer in the least anxious about my alleged addiction, my imminent insomnia, or anything else. There is yet, I regret to say, one super-subtle whisper: "Is not your freedom from apprehension a device of 'the Devil' to induce you to disdain your manifold precautions, and to go on the loose in order to show your superiority to the whole situation?"
Just so: This is a case for putting into practice by old rule: “When in doubt, stick to the letter of your resolution and never mind the spirit.” I may be free from all danger of being enslaved by drugs; I may be making myself absurd by going on with my 'cure' but I shall keep my rules for the sake of keeping them, without lust of result.
11.11 P.M. Well, that’s off my chest. (I wish the phlegm was!). I shall need some drivelling tosh till I happen to go to sleep—Goodnight, everybody!
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