Esoteric Secrets of Meditation and Magic. Volume 2: The Early Writings by Paul Foster Case (PDF)

In 1924, Paul Foster Case expanded his First Year Course by developing two advanced lecture series which he entitled Section C: ‘Concentration’ and Section D: ‘Magic’. The lectures built upon the material in the ‘First Year Course’(which had become known at this time as Section A:‘The Life Power’ and Section B: ‘The Seven Steps to Spiritual Unfoldment’). The Fraternity of the Hidden Light has recently published both of these lecture series as “Occult Fundamentals and Spiritual Unfoldment - Volume 1: The Early Writings.” This current volume provides the two additional lecture series that complete the original fundamental course structure of Paul Case. Section C, ‘Concentration’, expounds the esoteric secrets of Meditation. This section is a very advanced series of lessons that not only develops the essential skill of concentration but commences the student upon the‘Path of Return’ with a series of powerful “Qabalistic Meditations.” These Meditations have a tendency to facilitate deep spiritual experience in those who are prepared and chose to participate. This lesson series indeed represents some of the most advanced material written by Paul Case. Section D, ‘Magic’, provides the esoteric secrets of Magic in a very rare exposition of the fundamental tenets of magical practice by one of the greatest occultists of the 20th century. Here again is material published by Paul Case that cannot be found in any of his later developed lesson series and provides insight into the “tools of the trade” practiced by Golden Dawn enthusiasts today.

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Occult Fundamentals and Spiritual Unfoldment. Vol. 1: The Early Writings by Paul Foster Case (PDF)

Shortly after leaving the Alpha et Omega (MacGregor Mather's reformulation of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn), Paul Foster Case developed a lecture series entitled "The First Year Course". The purpose of the lectures was to provide students with a firm foundation in spiritual science and practice and to prepare them for Paul Case's rendition of the Golden Dawn Order.

When this coursework was expanded in 1924, the contents of the "The First Year Course" became known as Section A, `The Life Power', and Section B,`The Seven Steps of Spiritual Unfoldment'. The `Life Power' provided a firm foundation of Occult Fundamentals and the `The Seven Steps of Spiritual Unfoldment' utilized the Major Arcana of the Tarot to communicate the stages of Spiritual Evolution.

The early writings of Paul Foster Case are exceptionally clear and represent some of his finest work. Anyone approaching these lessons for the first time are encouraged to spend at least two weeks on each before proceeding to the next. This is precisely the manner in which the lectures and lessons were intended to be assimilated. Paul Case utilizes images in addition to words to communicate principles. Proceeding in such a manner will allow the corresponding ideas to take root and mature and thus facilitate understanding of the next lesson in the series.

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Tony and the Beetles by Philip K. Dick

Reddish-yellow sunlight filtered through the thick quartz windows into the sleep-compartment. Tony Rossi yawned, stirred a little, then opened his black eyes and sat up quickly. With one motion he tossed the covers back and slid to the warm metal floor. He clicked off his alarm clock and hurried to the closet.

It looked like a nice day. The landscape outside was motionless, undisturbed by winds or dust-shift. The boy's heart pounded excitedly. He pulled his trousers on, zipped up the reinforced mesh, struggled into his heavy canvas shirt, and then sat down on the edge of the cot to tug on his boots. He closed the seams around their tops and then did the same with his gloves. Next he adjusted the pressure on his pump unit and strapped it between his shoulder blades. He grabbed his helmet from the dresser, and he was ready for the day.

In the dining-compartment his mother and father had finished breakfast. Their voices drifted to him as he clattered down the ramp. A disturbed murmur; he paused to listen. What were they talking about? Had he done something wrong, again?

And then he caught it. Behind their voices was another voice. Static and crackling pops. The all-system audio signal from Rigel IV. They had it turned up full blast; the dull thunder of the monitor's voice boomed loudly. The war. Always the war. He sighed, and stepped out into the dining-compartment.

"Morning," his father muttered.

"Good morning, dear," his mother said absently. She sat with her head turned to one side, wrinkles of concentration webbing her forehead. Her thin lips were drawn together in a tight line of concern. His father had pushed his dirty dishes back and was smoking, elbows on the table, dark hairy arms bare and muscular. He was scowling, intent on the jumbled roar from the speaker above the sink.

"How's it going?" Tony asked. He slid into his chair and reached automatically for the ersatz grapefruit. "Any news from Orion?"

Neither of them answered. They didn't hear him. He began to eat his grapefruit. Outside, beyond the little metal and plastic housing unit, sounds of activity grew. Shouts and muffled crashes, as rural merchants and their trucks rumbled along the highway toward Karnet. The reddish daylight swelled; Betelgeuse was rising quietly and majestically.

"Nice day," Tony said. "No flux wind. I think I'll go down to the n-quarter awhile. We're building a neat spaceport, a model, of course, but we've been able to get enough materials to lay out strips for—"

With a savage snarl his father reached out and struck the audio roar immediately died. "I knew it!" He got up and moved angrily away from the table. "I told them it would happen. They shouldn't have moved so soon. Should have built up Class A supply bases, first."

"Isn't our main fleet moving in from Bellatrix?" Tony's mother fluttered anxiously. "According to last night's summary the worst that can happen is Orion IX and X will be dumped."

Joseph Rossi laughed harshly. "The hell with last night's summary. They know as well as I do what's happening."

"What's happening?" Tony echoed, as he pushed aside his grapefruit and began to ladle out dry cereal. "Are we losing the battle?"

"Yes!" His father's lips twisted. "Earthmen, losing to—to beetles. I told them. But they couldn't wait. My God, there's ten good years left in this system. Why'd they have to push on? Everybody knew Orion would be tough. The whole damn beetle fleet's strung out around there. Waiting for us. And we have to barge right in."

"But nobody ever thought beetles would fight," Leah Rossi protested mildly. "Everybody thought they'd just fire a few blasts and then—"

"They have to fight! Orion's the last jump-off. If they don't fight here, where the hell can they fight?" Rossi swore savagely. "Of course they're fighting. We have all their planets except the inner Orion string—not that they're worth much, but it's the principle of the thing. If we'd built up strong supply bases, we could have broken up the beetle fleet and really clobbered it."

"Don't say 'beetle,'" Tony murmured, as he finished his cereal. "They're Pas-udeti, same as here. The word 'beetle' comes from Betelgeuse. An Arabian word we invented ourselves."

Joe Rossi's mouth opened and closed. "What are you, a goddamn beetle-lover?"

"Joe," Leah snapped. "For heaven's sake."

Rossi moved toward the door. "If I was ten years younger I'd be out there. I'd really show those shiny-shelled insects what the hell they're up against. Them and their junky beat-up old hulks. Converted freighters!" His eyes blazed. "When I think of them shooting down Terran cruisers with our boys in them—"

"Orion's their system," Tony murmured.

"Their system! When the hell did you get to be an authority on space law? Why, I ought to—" He broke off, choked with rage. "My own kid," he muttered. "One more crack out of you today and I'll hang one on you you'll feel the rest of the week."

Tony pushed his chair back. "I won't be around here today. I'm going into Karnet, with my EEP."

"Yeah, to play with beetles!"

Tony said nothing. He was already sliding his helmet in place and snapping the clamps tight. As he pushed through the back door, into the lock membrane, he unscrewed his oxygen tap and set the tank filter into action. An automatic response, conditioned by a lifetime spent on a colony planet in an alien system.

---

A faint flux wind caught at him and swept yellow-red dust around his boots. Sunlight glittered from the metal roof of his family's housing unit, one of endless rows of squat boxes set in the sandy slope, protected by the line of ore-refining installations against the horizon. He made an impatient signal, and from the storage shed his EEP came gliding out, catching the sunlight on its chrome trim.

"We're going down into Karnet," Tony said, unconsciously slipping into the Pas dialect. "Hurry up!"

The EEP took up its position behind him, and he started briskly down the slope, over the shifting sand, toward the road. There were quite a few traders out, today. It was a good day for the market; only a fourth of the year was fit for travel. Betelgeuse was an erratic and undependable sun, not at all like Sol (according to the edutapes, fed to Tony four hours a day, six days a week—he had never seen Sol himself).

He reached the noisy road. Pas-udeti were everywhere. Whole groups of them, with their primitive combustion-driven trucks, battered and filthy, motors grinding protestingly. He waved at the trucks as they pushed past him. After a moment one slowed down. It was piled with tis, bundled heaps of gray vegetables dried, and prepared for the table. A staple of the Pas-udeti diet. Behind the wheel lounged a dark-faced elderly Pas, one arm over the open window, a rolled leaf between his lips. He was like all other Pas-udeti; lank and hard-shelled, encased in a brittle sheath in which he lived and died.

"You want a ride?" the Pas murmured—required protocol when an Earthman on foot was encountered.

"Is there room for my EEP?"

The Pas made a careless motion with his claw. "It can run behind." Sardonic amusement touched his ugly old face. "If it gets to Karnet we'll sell it for scrap. We can use a few condensers and relay tubing. We're short on electronic maintenance stuff."

"I know," Tony said solemnly, as he climbed into the cabin of the truck. "It's all been sent to the big repair base at Orion I. For your warfleet."

Amusement vanished from the leathery face. "Yes, the warfleet." He turned away and started up the truck again. In the back, Tony's EEP had scrambled up on the load of tis and was gripping precariously with its magnetic lines.

Tony noticed the Pas-udeti's sudden change of expression, and he was puzzled. He started to speak to him—but now he noticed unusual quietness among the other Pas, in the other trucks, behind and in front of his own. The war, of course. It had swept through this system a century ago; these people had been left behind. Now all eyes were on Orion, on the battle between the Terran warfleet and the Pas-udeti collection of armed freighters.

"Is it true," Tony asked carefully, "that you're winning?"

The elderly Pas grunted. "We hear rumors."

Tony considered. "My father says Terra went ahead too fast. He says we should have consolidated. We didn't assemble adequate supply bases. He used to be an officer, when he was younger. He was with the fleet for two years."

The Pas was silent a moment. "It's true," he said at last, "that when you're so far from home, supply is a great problem. We, on the other hand, don't have that. We have no distances to cover."

"Do you know anybody fighting?"

"I have distant relatives." The answer was vague; the Pas obviously didn't want to talk about it.

"Have you ever seen your warfleet?"

"Not as it exists now. When this system was defeated most of our units were wiped out. Remnants limped to Orion and joined the Orion fleet."

"Your relatives were with the remnants?"

"That's right."

"Then you were alive when this planet was taken?"

"Why do you ask?" The old Pas quivered violently. "What business is it of yours?"

Tony leaned out and watched the walls and buildings of Karnet grow ahead of them. Karnet was an old city. It had stood thousands of years. The Pas-udeti civilization was stable; it had reached a certain point of technocratic development and then leveled off. The Pas had inter-system ships that had carried people and freight between planets in the days before the Terran Confederation. They had combustion-driven cars, audiophones, a power network of a magnetic type. Their plumbing was satisfactory and their medicine was highly advanced. They had art forms, emotional and exciting. They had a vague religion.

"Who do you think will win the battle?" Tony asked.

"I don't know." With a sudden jerk the old Pas brought the truck to a crashing halt. "This is as far as I go. Please get out and take your EEP with you."

Tony faltered in surprise. "But aren't you going—?"

"No farther!"

Tony pushed the door open. He was vaguely uneasy; there was a hard, fixed expression on the leathery face, and the old creature's voice had a sharp edge he had never heard before. "Thanks," he murmured. He hopped down into the red dust and signaled his EEP. It released its magnetic lines, and instantly the truck started up with a roar, passing on inside the city.

Tony watched it go, still dazed. The hot dust lapped at his ankles; he automatically moved his feet and slapped at his trousers. A truck honked, and his EEP quickly moved him from the road, up to the level pedestrian ramp. Pas-udeti in swarms moved by, endless lines of rural people hurrying into Karnet on their daily business. A massive public bus had stopped by the gate and was letting off passengers. Male and female Pas. And children. They laughed and shouted; the sounds of their voices blended with the low hum of the city.

"Going in?" a sharp Pas-udeti voice sounded close behind him. "Keep moving—you're blocking the ramp."

It was a young female, with a heavy armload clutched in her claws. Tony felt embarrassed; female Pas had a certain telepathic ability, part of their sexual make-up. It was effective on Earthmen at close range.

"Here," she said. "Give me a hand."

Tony nodded his head, and the EEP accepted the female's heavy armload. "I'm visiting the city," Tony said, as they moved with the crowd toward the gates. "I got a ride most of the way, but the driver let me off out here."

"You're from the settlement?"

"Yes."

She eyed him critically. "You've always lived here, haven't you?"

"I was born here. My family came here from Earth four years before I was born. My father was an officer in the fleet. He earned an Emigration Priority."

"So you've never seen your own planet. How old are you?"

"Ten years. Terran."

"You shouldn't have asked the driver so many questions."

They passed through the decontamination shield and into the city. An information square loomed ahead; Pas men and women were packed around it. Moving chutes and transport cars rumbled everywhere. Buildings and ramps and open-air machinery; the city was sealed in a protective dust-proof envelope. Tony unfastened his helmet and clipped it to his belt. The air was stale-smelling, artificial, but usable.

"Let me tell you something," the young female said carefully, as she strode along the foot-ramp beside Tony. "I wonder if this is a good day for you to come into Karnet. I know you've been coming here regularly to play with your friends. But perhaps today you ought to stay at home, in your settlement."

"Why?"

"Because today everybody is upset."

"I know," Tony said. "My mother and father were upset. They were listening to the news from our base in the Rigel system."

"I don't mean your family. Other people are listening, too. These people here. My race."

"They're upset, all right," Tony admitted. "But I come here all the time. There's nobody to play with at the settlement, and anyhow we're working on a project."

"A model spaceport."

"That's right." Tony was envious. "I sure wish I was a telepath. It must be fun."

The female Pas-udeti was silent. She was deep in thought. "What would happen," she asked, "if your family left here and returned to Earth?"

"That couldn't happen. There's no room for us on Earth. C-bombs destroyed most of Asia and North America back in the Twentieth Century."

"Suppose you had to go back?"

Tony did not understand. "But we can't. Habitable portions of Earth are overcrowded. Our main problem is finding places for Terrans to live, in other systems." He added, "And anyhow, I don't particularly want to go to Terra. I'm used to it here. All my friends are here."

"I'll take my packages," the female said. "I go this other way, down this third-level ramp."

Tony nodded to his EEP and it lowered the bundles into the female's claws. She lingered a moment, trying to find the right words.

"Good luck," she said.

"With what?"

She smiled faintly, ironically. "With your model spaceport. I hope you and your friends get to finish it."

"Of course we'll finish it," Tony said, surprised. "It's almost done." What did she mean?

The Pas-udeti woman hurried off before he could ask her. Tony was troubled and uncertain; more doubts filled him. After a moment he headed slowly into the lane that took him toward the residential section of the city. Past the stores and factories, to the place where his friends lived.

The group of Pas-udeti children eyed him silently as he approached. They had been playing in the shade of an immense hengelo, whose ancient branches drooped and swayed with the air currents pumped through the city. Now they sat unmoving.

"I didn't expect you today," B'prith said, in an expressionless voice.

Tony halted awkwardly, and his EEP did the same. "How are things?" he murmured.

"Fine."

"I got a ride part way."

"Fine."

Tony squatted down in the shade. None of the Pas children stirred. They were small, not as large as Terran children. Their shells had not hardened, had not turned dark and opaque, like horn. It gave them a soft, unformed appearance, but at the same time it lightened their load. They moved more easily than their elders; they could hop and skip around, still. But they were not skipping right now.

"What's the matter?" Tony demanded. "What's wrong with everybody?"

No one answered.

"Where's the model?" he asked. "Have you fellows been working on it?"

After a moment Llyre nodded slightly.

Tony felt dull anger rise up inside him. "Say something! What's the matter? What're you all mad about?"

"Mad?" B'prith echoed. "We're not mad."

Tony scratched aimlessly in the dust. He knew what it was. The war, again. The battle going on near Orion. His anger burst up wildly. "Forget the war. Everything was fine yesterday, before the battle."

"Sure," Llyre said. "It was fine."

Tony caught the edge to his voice. "It happened a hundred years ago. It's not my fault."

"Sure," B'prith said.

"This is my home. Isn't it? Haven't I got as much right here as anybody else? I was born here."

"Sure," Llyre said, tonelessly.

Tony appealed to them helplessly. "Do you have to act this way? You didn't act this way yesterday. I was here yesterday—all of us were here yesterday. What's happened since yesterday?"

"The battle," B'prith said.

"What difference does that make? Why does that change everything? There's always war. There've been battles all the time, as long as I can remember. What's different about this?"

B'prith broke apart a clump of dirt with his strong claws. After a moment he tossed it away and got slowly to his feet. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "according to our audio relay, it looks as if our fleet is going to win, this time."

"Yes," Tony agreed, not understanding. "My father says we didn't build up adequate supply bases. We'll probably have to fall back to...." And then the impact hit him. "You mean, for the first time in a hundred years—"

"Yes," Llyre said, also getting up. The others got up, too. They moved away from Tony, toward the near-by house. "We're winning. The Terran flank was turned, half an hour ago. Your right wing has folded completely."

Tony was stunned. "And it matters. It matters to all of you."

"Matters!" B'prith halted, suddenly blazing out in fury. "Sure it matters! For the first time—in a century. The first time in our lives we're beating you. We have you on the run, you—" He choked out the word, almost spat it out. "You white-grubs!"

They disappeared into the house. Tony sat gazing stupidly down at the ground, his hands still moving aimlessly. He had heard the word before, seen it scrawled on walls and in the dust near the settlement. White-grubs. The Pas term of derision for Terrans. Because of their softness, their whiteness. Lack of hard shells. Pulpy, doughy skin. But they had never dared say it out loud, before. To an Earthman's face.

Beside him, his EEP stirred restlessly. Its intricate radio mechanism sensed the hostile atmosphere. Automatic relays were sliding into place; circuits were opening and closing.

"It's all right," Tony murmured, getting slowly up. "Maybe we'd better go back."

He moved unsteadily toward the ramp, completely shaken. The EEP walked calmly ahead, its metal face blank and confident, feeling nothing, saying nothing. Tony's thoughts were a wild turmoil; he shook his head, but the crazy spinning kept up. He couldn't make his mind slow down, lock in place.

"Wait a minute," a voice said. B'prith's voice, from the open doorway. Cold and withdrawn, almost unfamiliar.

"What do you want?"

B'prith came toward him, claws behind his back in the formal Pas-udeti posture, used between total strangers. "You shouldn't have come here, today."

"I know," Tony said.

B'prith got out a bit of tis stalk and began to roll it into a tube. He pretended to concentrate on it. "Look," he said. "You said you have a right here. But you don't."

"I—" Tony murmured.

"Do you understand why not? You said it isn't your fault. I guess not. But it's not my fault, either. Maybe it's nobody's fault. I've known you a long time."

"Five years. Terran."

B'prith twisted the stalk up and tossed it away. "Yesterday we played together. We worked on the spaceport. But we can't play today. My family said to tell you not to come here any more." He hesitated, and did not look Tony in the face. "I was going to tell you, anyhow. Before they said anything."

"Oh," Tony said.

"Everything that's happened today—the battle, our fleet's stand. We didn't know. We didn't dare hope. You see? A century of running. First this system. Then the Rigel system, all the planets. Then the other Orion stars. We fought here and there—scattered fights. Those that got away joined up. We supplied the base at Orion—you people didn't know. But there was no hope; at least, nobody thought there was." He was silent a moment. "Funny," he said, "what happens when your back's to the wall, and there isn't any further place to go. Then you have to fight."

"If our supply bases—" Tony began thickly, but B'prith cut him off savagely.

"Your supply bases! Don't you understand? We're beating you! Now you'll have to get out! All you white-grubs. Out of our system!"

Tony's EEP moved forward ominously. B'prith saw it. He bent down, snatched up a rock, and hurled it straight at the EEP. The rock clanged off the metal hull and bounced harmlessly away. B'prith snatched up another rock. Llyre and the others came quickly out of the house. An adult Pas loomed up behind them. Everything was happening too fast. More rocks crashed against the EEP. One struck Tony on the arm.

"Get out!" B'prith screamed. "Don't come back! This is our planet!" His claws snatched at Tony. "We'll tear you to pieces if you—"

Tony smashed him in the chest. The soft shell gave like rubber, and the Pas stumbled back. He wobbled and fell over, gasping and screeching.

"Beetle," Tony breathed hoarsely. Suddenly he was terrified. A crowd of Pas-udeti was forming rapidly. They surged on all sides, hostile faces, dark and angry, a rising thunder of rage.

More stones showered. Some struck the EEP, others fell around Tony, near his boots. One whizzed past his face. Quickly he slid his helmet in place. He was scared. He knew his EEP's E-signal had already gone out, but it would be minutes before a ship could come. Besides, there were other Earthmen in the city to be taken care of; there were Earthmen all over the planet. In all the cities. On all the twenty-three Betelgeuse planets. On the fourteen Rigel planets. On the other Orion planets.

"We have to get out of here," he muttered to the EEP. "Do something!"

A stone hit him on the helmet. The plastic cracked; air leaked out, and then the autoseal filmed over. More stones were falling. The Pas swarmed close, a yelling, seething mass of black-sheathed creatures. He could smell them, the acrid body-odor of insects, hear their claws snap, feel their weight.

The EEP threw its heat beam on. The beam shifted in a wide band toward the crowd of Pas-udeti. Crude hand weapons appeared. A clatter of bullets burst around Tony; they were firing at the EEP. He was dimly aware of the metal body beside him. A shuddering crash—the EEP was toppled over. The crowd poured over it; the metal hull was lost from sight.

Like a demented animal, the crowd tore at the struggling EEP. A few of them smashed in its head; others tore off struts and shiny arm-sections. The EEP ceased struggling. The crowd moved away, panting and clutching jagged remains. They saw Tony.

As the first line of them reached for him, the protective envelope high above them shattered. A Terran scout ship thundered down, heat beam screaming. The crowd scattered in confusion, some firing, some throwing stones, others leaping for safety.

Tony picked himself up and made his way unsteadily toward the spot where the scout was landing.

---

"I'm sorry," Joe Rossi said gently. He touched his son on the shoulder. "I shouldn't have let you go down there today. I should have known."

Tony sat hunched over in the big plastic easychair. He rocked back and forth, face pale with shock. The scout ship which had rescued him had immediately headed back toward Karnet; there were other Earthmen to bring out, besides this first load. The boy said nothing. His mind was blank. He still heard the roar of the crowd, felt its hate—a century of pent-up fury and resentment. The memory drove out everything else; it was all around him, even now. And the sight of the floundering EEP, the metallic ripping sound, as its arms and legs were torn off and carried away.

His mother dabbed at his cuts and scratches with antiseptic. Joe Rossi shakily lit a cigarette and said, "If your EEP hadn't been along they'd have killed you. Beetles." He shuddered. "I never should have let you go down there. All this time.... They might have done it any time, any day. Knifed you. Cut you open with their filthy goddamn claws."

Below the settlement the reddish-yellow sunlight glinted on gunbarrels. Already, dull booms echoed against the crumbling hills. The defense ring was going into action. Black shapes darted and scurried up the side of the slope. Black patches moved out from Karnet, toward the Terran settlement, across the dividing line the Confederation surveyors had set up a century ago. Karnet was a bubbling pot of activity. The whole city rumbled with feverish excitement.

Tony raised his head. "They—they turned our flank."

"Yeah." Joe Rossi stubbed out his cigarette. "They sure did. That was at one o'clock. At two they drove a wedge right through the center of our line. Split the fleet in half. Broke it up—sent it running. Picked us off one by one as we fell back. Christ, they're like maniacs. Now that they've got the scent, the taste of our blood."

"But it's getting better," Leah fluttered. "Our main fleet units are beginning to appear."

"We'll get them," Joe muttered. "It'll take a while. But by God we'll wipe them out. Every last one of them. If it takes a thousand years. We'll follow every last ship down—we'll get them all." His voice rose in frenzy. "Beetles! Goddamn insects! When I think of them, trying to hurt my kid, with their filthy black claws—"

"If you were younger, you'd be in the line," Leah said. "It's not your fault you're too old. The heart strain's too great. You did your job. They can't let an older person take chances. It's not your fault."

Joe clenched his fists. "I feel so—futile. If there was only something I could do."

"The fleet will take care of them," Leah said soothingly. "You said so yourself. They'll hunt every one of them down. Destroy them all. There's nothing to worry about."

Joe sagged miserably. "It's no use. Let's cut it out. Let's stop kidding ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

"Face it! We're not going to win, not this time. We went too far. Our time's come."

There was silence.

Tony sat up a little. "When did you know?"

"I've known a long time."

"I found out today. I didn't understand, at first. This is—stolen ground. I was born here, but it's stolen ground."

"Yes. It's stolen. It doesn't belong to us."

"We're here because we're stronger. But now we're not stronger. We're being beaten."

"They know Terrans can be licked. Like anybody else." Joe Rossi's face was gray and flabby. "We took their planets away from them. Now they're taking them back. It'll be a while, of course. We'll retreat slowly. It'll be another five centuries going back. There're a lot of systems between here and Sol."

Tony shook his head, still uncomprehending. "Even Llyre and B'prith. All of them. Waiting for their time to come. For us to lose and go away again. Where we came from."

Joe Rossi paced back and forth. "Yeah, we'll be retreating from now on. Giving ground, instead of taking it. It'll be like this today—losing fights, draws. Stalemates and worse."

He raised his feverish eyes toward the ceiling of the little metal housing unit, face wild with passion and misery.

"But, by God, we'll give them a run for their money. All the way back! Every inch!"

Kabbalah: A Neurocognitive Approach to Mystical Experiences by Arzy Shahar and Moshe Idel (PDF)

In this original study, Moshe Idel, an eminent scholar of Jewish mysticism and thought, and the cognitive neuroscientist and neurologist Shahar Arzy combine their considerable expertise to explore the mysteries of the Kabbalah from an entirely new perspective: that of the human brain. In lieu of the theological, sociological, and psychoanalytic approaches that have generally dominated the study of ecstatic mystical experiences, the authors endeavor to decode the brain mechanisms underlying these phenomena. Arzy and Idel analyze first-person descriptions to explore the Kabbalistic techniques employed by most prominent Jewish mystics to effect bodily reduplications, dissociations, and other phenomena, and compare them with recent neurological observations and modern-day laboratory experiments. The resultant study offers readers a scientific, more brain-based understanding of how ecstatic Kabbalists achieved their most precious mystical experiences. The study further demonstrates how these Kabbalists have long functioned as pioneering investigators of the human self.

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Needle: A Treatise on Obsessive Magick ::: Chapter Four

Chapter Four ::: The Guide

"The knower of truth should go about the world outwardly stupid like a child, a madman or a fool." - The Mahavakya Ratnamala

Had I not met my mentor I too may well have looked at life in the same light as Thomas Hobbes; a rather unpleasant occurrence whose main attributes appeared "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short".  Yet I knew, even from that young age, that there was something more, that life was some type of unfoldment and that any attachment to nihilism merely reflected entrapment in a specific trance. 

We surely are all trapped between two mysterious worlds; one of outer 'normality' and another of inner feelings, torments, joys and emotions.  Both of these 'realities' feed on each other and both are locked in a kind of continuous struggle.  Nobody ever quite adjusts properly to this two-world existence.  People wear masks that cry out 'I am adjusted', 'I am happy', 'I am normal', but just beneath the mask there is always that turmoil of uncertainty.

Religion has kept its appeal because it helps to alleviate the uncertainty of existence.  Religion has never truly centered itself on truth but rather on fear, and even today it maintains its merit with vapid words like 'hope' and 'faith'.  The more the fear the more the believer believes.  Given the right circumstance and the appropriate amount of fear, the deeply religious (fearful) will meet doubt with guns and mockery with knives.

To the fearful, killing over cartoons is as pleasing as bowing for a prescribed number of times a day to keep the deity from punishing (or forgetting).  Punishment and fear, murder and intolerance; as natural and predictable as dogma and genocide.

It's difficult territory to travail, this mysterious path to awakening, and the more one consults the masters and guides that have gone before the more they seem to suggest a hidden and skewed path. As one moves closer to the mystery indeed one also becomes increasingly filled with doubt, and yet this 'lost' stage appears not only important but in fact signals a kind of breakthrough.  In the Apophthegmata of the Desert Fathers we hear and can well understand the voice of a fourth-century monk when he tells us, "Truly, Abbot Joseph has found the way, because he has said: 'I do not know.'"

I had to know.

I first met my guide in a book.  I cannot remember the title now but it was one of those typical 'Great Mysteries of the World' type volumes.  Big foot was there and UFO's, and the usual chapters on strange rains of fish, Jack the Ripper and ghosts.  But none of these Fortean curiosities really interested me.  They were fascinating topics to be sure, but once you have read one of these types of books you have read them all.

There was one chapter however that did catch me and its subject was occultism and 'magick'.  At that young age it was the first time I had seen the word magick with its peculiar spelling.  A black and white photograph jumped out at me, it depicted a man dressed in a robe, in front of him on a table were placed a sword, a mysterious looking book, what looked like a crystal ball, a small vial of oil, and a large old-looking Egyptian stele.  The man held a wand and his head was crowned with a snake motif and upon his chest lay a necklace depicting some sort of cross.  

I looked closely at the photograph and read the inscription beneath.  'Aleister Crowley', that was the man's name, and the book referred to him as a 'ritual magician'.  I had no real understanding what any of this meant but a peculiar feeling told me that this person was to play a crucial role in my life.

I knew then and there that I had to make a decision.  Something was pulling me towards this man and a choice had to be made: close the book, walk away and forget I had ever seen this strange character or find out everything I could about him.  Had I taken the first choice then you, my dear reader, would most certainly not be reading this book.  But I chose the second option and from that moment I knew that this figure would act as some type of strange attractor forever leading me deeper into initiation.

I had to find out everything I could about this person and so I began to read.  I visited every library, sat hidden in every bookshop that would allow me hours of undisturbed reading, poured over every detail about this man.  The basics were easy enough, born Edward Alexander Crowley on Tuesday, October 12th, 1875 between the hours of 11 p.m. and midnight.  His parents were members of the Plymouth Brethren, an ultra conservative Christian sect famous for its strict adherence to a literal interpretation of scripture and its harsh dishing out of physical discipline and punishment.  This ensured Crowley's early life would be punctuated with beatings for even the mildest of misdeeds.

He suffered through a difficult upbringing until at last, in 1893, at the young age of eighteen, he declared himself not only a magician but promised to raise Magick from its then current fallen state and into a legitimate science.  Right from the beginning he referred to this ancient science using the old English word 'magick' and his choice for doing so he tells us was "in order to distinguish the Science of the Magi from all its counterfeits."

It did not take long for Crowley to first encounter doubt and this 'lost' stage thrust itself upon him with great force. In his masterpiece recounting of Crowley's life and spiritual achievement titled Aleister Crowley and the Hidden God, Kenneth Grant documents Crowley's quick rise and his struggle with the trance of futility:

"Within a year of his initiation into the Order of the Golden Dawn, Crowley's advance had been so swift that he attained the highest grade, and according to an unpublished autobiographical note (1924, by the year 1903, Crowley was the most advanced Adept (as distinct from Master) in the world.  But as at Cambridge, when he had undergone the Buddhist Trance of Sorrow and realized the futility of earthly ambition and achievement, so now, when almost at the summit of mystical attainment, he was overwhelmed by a similar sense of futility.  It was so acute that he abandoned the Great Work itself."

This trance of doubt and futility scared me greatly when I first read of it and yet I knew that such a trance was already familiar to me.  It had been thrust upon me on that road, by that van, by that girl, by her death.

In the 16th century a Spanish Roman Catholic mystic commonly named Saint John of the Cross titled his famous poem The Dark Night of the Soul (La Noche Oscura Del Alma), in it he details a tumultuous process as the soul ascends from its bodily form and unto God. Was I ready for the dark night?  Are any of us ever truly ready?

Aleister & Adolf by Douglas Rushkoff (PDF)

Media theorist and documentarian Douglas Rushkoff weaves a mind-bending tale of iconography and mysticism against the backdrop of a battle-torn Europe. In a story spanning generations, and featuring some of the most notable and notorious idealists of the 20th century, legendary occultist Aleister Crowley develops a powerful and dangerous new weapon to defend the world against Adolf Hitler's own war machine spawning an unconventional new form of warfare that is fought not with steel, but with symbols and ideas. Unfortunately, these intangible arsenals are much more insidious and perhaps much more dangerous than their creators could have ever conceived.

"Rushkoff is a cultural treasure and an eccentric author of big, strange ideas, never less than fascinating and always entertaining." -Warren Ellis, author of Gun Machine, Red, Trees, and Transmetropolitan

"Douglas has been one of my personal heroes, and I've been a most attentive reader of anything he cares to put between covers, knowing that his combination of a cold eye and a warm heart is guaranteed to astonish and embolden my own thinking about what's possible in the world--about what's possible to enact in the space between one human being and another. He occupies the ground of our most immediate perplexities, and his reports of what he finds are breaking news." -Jonathan Lethem, author of The Best American Comics and The Fortress of Solitude

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Tantra Magick - An Amookos Manual by Shri Lokanath Maharaj & Michael R. Goss (PDF)

In this book you will find the first three sets of instructions for the Tantrik group AMOOKOS (the Arcane and Magickal Order of the Knights of Shambhala). For the first time, we reveal publicly the methods, rites and philosophy pursued by an inner group of initiates within the Order.

This book shows how the esoteric strands of east and west are fused together into a practical system which has as its purpose the unveiling of the spiritual potential latent in every individual. We take as starting point the assumption that within each and every human is a divine spark or spirit. These exercises are a means by which this spirit may be released from the bonds of ignorance and can shine free

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Pharmako/Poeia: Plant Powers, Poisons, and Herbcraft by Dale Pendell (PDF)

This is the first volume of North Atlantic Books updated paperback edition of Dale Pendell s "Pharmako" trilogy, an encyclopedic study of the history and uses of psychoactive plants and related synthetics first published between 1995 and 2005. The books form an interrelated suite of works that provide the reader with a unique, reliable, and often personal immersion in this medically, culturally, and spiritually fascinating subject. All three books are beautifully designed and illustrated, and are written with unparalleled authority, erudition, playfulness, and range.

"Pharmako/Poeia: Plant Powers, Poisons, and Herbcraft "includes a new introduction by the author and as in previous editions focuses on familiar psychoactive plant-derived substances and related synthetics, ranging from the licit (tobacco, alcohol) to the illicit (cannabis, opium) and the exotic (absinthe, salvia divinorum, nitrous oxide). Each substance is explored in detail, not only with information on its history, pharmacology, preparation, and cultural and esoteric correspondences, but also the subtleties of each plant s effect on consciousness in a way that only poets can do. The whole concoction is sprinkled with abundant quotations from famous writers, creating a literary brew as intoxicating as its subject.

The "Pharmako" series is continued in "Pharmako/Dynamis" (focusing on stimulants and empathogens) and "Pharmako/Gnosis "(which addresses psychedelics and shamanic plants)."

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Sacred Trickery and the Way of Kindness: The Radical Wisdom of Jodo by Alejandro Jodorowsky (PDF & ePUB)

Enter the mind of Jodo and follow his initiatory saga from Zen disciple to revolutionary filmmaker to spiritual teacher

• Explores the sacred trickery of shamans he encountered, including Carlos Castaneda, and how intention and action matter more than notions of “true” and “false”

• Explains the Way of Kindness and how small acts of generosity and goodness can have a profound effect on your spirit, infusing life with a wealth of happiness

• Includes contributions from friends and students of Jodorowsky on their experiences with him, including his son Adan Jodorowsky

Known for his surrealist films, his unique approach to tarot, his symbolic comics, and his shamanic therapeutic method of psychomagic, Alejandro Jodorowsky has accomplished an extraordinary amount in his more than 80 years. In this book, we get an intimate look into the inner workings of the cult figure of Jodo. What is revealed is a man who has evolved since his groundbreaking films of the 1970s, El Topo and The Holy Mountain, a man who has grown from a sacred trickster, a shaman of psychomagic, into a brilliant spiritual maverick of the 21st century. We get to see Jodo’s own reflections on the rich tapestry of his remarkable life, including the initiatory failure of the Dune film project, which combined the talents of a multitude of creative greats, including Moebius, Salvador Dali, Orson Welles, Mick Jagger, and H. R. Giger. We learn about Jodo’s years with Marcel Marceau and with great masters such as Ejo Takata, whose Zen training featured strenuous physical and mental ordeals; the sorceress Pachita, who performed psychic surgery on Jodo; and the mysterious Carlos Castaneda, whose sacred trickery reveals how intentions matter more than notions of “true” and “false.”

Discussing the Way of Kindness that he now follows, Jodo reveals how intentionally practicing small acts of generosity and goodness can have a profound effect on your spirit, infusing life with a wealth of happiness.

From sacred trickery to the path of kindness, Jodo’s radical wisdom discerns the timeless within the immediate and gauges the everyday by the measure of eternity.

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Aleister Crowley – Wandering The Waste by Martin Hayes & RH Stewart (CBR)

England’s finest Magician? Scoundrel? Occultist? Mischief-maker? Explorer of realms? Or simply, as he’s often remembered ‘the wickedest man in the world’? Hayes and Stewart tell a very human story of an extraordinary man, and leave the final decision to the reader. Master magician or deluded manipulator? Read on….

Do you believe in magic? Do you reckon Crowley was the real deal? or just a deluded fool? Whatever you think, there’s no denying that there was little that was simple about the man, or his life, and this fool may well have been a genius. Believe in magic or not, the life of Crowley the man is far too interesting to be cast to history a simple cartoon character, the evil magician. Crowley’s ambition seems to have been to transcend his life, to have his mortality wiped away by journeying to other realms and live on after other men have long gone… in so many ways he has.

One thing this graphic novel does leave you with, no matter what you believe, no matter what you think of Crowley the legend… he lived a life that can only be described as rich and full, epic even. Healthy, sensible, good… perhaps not, but certainly epic. He travelled, he shocked, mastered chess, an accomplished mountaineeer, travelled the globe, influenced so many, rubbing shoulders with the greats of his time. Epic indeed.

And it’s dutifully and entertainingly detailed by writer Martin Hayes and artist RH Stewart in this graphic novel that concerns itself primarily with Crowley the man, at the end of his days, 72 years old, terminally infirm, living in a guest house, the man in room 13, more concerned with consulting his tortoiseshell sticks than consulting a doctor.

Immediately Hayes and Stewart strip away some of the mystique, after all it’s hard to truly hate the dying, and we begin to look at Crowley the idea, the legend through the story of Crowley the man, as we venture right back to the beginning, Crowley detailing his life to a visiting writer, intent on chronicling the life of the famous occultist.

Looking back over his life, we see the boy born into the Plymouth Brethren, religious zealots more concerned with preparing for the imminent reappearance of Jesus than looking after a child. His nickname of Beast came not from newspapers or enemies, but from his own mother, faced with evidence of the boy finding pleasures of the flesh too inviting as adulthood approached.

With such an upbringing, it’s small wonder that the boy grew to become a man with unusual ideas, indoctrination failed, religious ideals overthrown, a conviction to embrace his name as Beast, after all … if Mother believed him truly to be the Anti-Christ incarnate, is it any wonder he played up to it?

That’s one way to look at it certainly, but alternatively, he was just bad. Very bad. Evil? We may never know. But at least Hayes and Stewart’s tale is always clever enough to leave both options open. As we read of mother’s obvious religious madness in casting her son as the devil for having sex a few times, the final lines on the page immediately reveal an alternative viewpoint….

    “Oh, and then there was the incident with the cat.”
    “The cat?”
    “Well, I had been told that a cat has 9 lives…”

So as we travel through Crowley’s life there’s a sense of getting a measured view, granted it’s from the viewpoint of Crowley himself, but there’s opportunity aplenty for Hayes to have Crowley present all manner of ideas, to present the man as a flawed thing, capable of great acts, and just as capable of the worst human traits. Proud, strong, intense, passionate, driven, ambitious, selfish, spiteful, jealous, kind, generous…. all aspects of Crowley come through across the years. And above all, the idea that Crowley, no matter what, genuinely believed in his magic, as he ascended the ranks of the magical elite, even as he acknowledged that many of their number, indeed most of their number, could be classed as mere “charlatans and non-entities“.

The problem here is that Hayes’ words work a lot better than Stewart’s artwork, which feels out of time, something akin to early McKean, feeling just that little dated and a case of seen it done better many years back, this mix of scratchy figurative work, cut and paste collage and digital effects here and there. It’s by no means terrible, and at its best it succeeds in creating the required atmosphere of the magician’s life.

Where the early parts of the book are all concerned with a strict biographical narrative, this structure breaks down as the adult Crowley immerses himself in his own magical world, events come thick and fast, and there’s an unfortunate (although somewhat necessary) reliance on simply throwing a list of events at one of Stewart’s collage like pages at times. It means we’re jettisoned from the narrative at this point, and that’s a real shame, as the wotrk done early on to immerse us in Crowley’s life was really well done.

However, just as this approach is getting too tiresome, the finale, detailing the final hours of the great magician’s life, break free from this structure and veer into the realms of speculative fiction once more, with Hayes composing a possible end involving something as magical as the practices Crowley convinced himself were oh so real.

The ending really is something quite interesting and special, Hayes and Stewart finding a really involving, and yes, a magical way to end their tale, to end Crowley’s life. But the thing the graphic novel leaves us with, as it should, is that Crowley’s desire to transcend death, and to live in the imagination and the memory of the world, was accomplished. Death took the man, but his legacy lives on.

Wandering The Waste succeeds in putting this legacy into context, and although there’s a fair few faults here, there’s nothing that really spoils the story, nothing that stops the message from coming through, and does it damn enjoyably to boot.

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Monastery of the Seven Rays Year 1 to 4 Study Course

This is a private study course to be read before the Voudon Gnostic Workbook practicum. It was originally published as a mail order study course and is yet to be reprinted in book form.

    Monastery of the Seven Rays, Year 1, Student Degrees (1967).
    Monastery of the Seven Rays, Year 2, Sexual Magic (1969).
    Monastery of the Seven Rays, Year 3, Esoteric Engineering
    Monastery of the Seven Rays, Year 4, Esoteric Magic

For students of the Monastery of the Seven Rays

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The Penguin U.G. Krishnamurti Reader Edited by Mukunda Rao (ePUB & mobi)

My teaching, if that is the word you want to use, has no copyright. You are free to reproduce, distribute, interpret, misinterpret, distort, garble, do what you like, even claim authorship, without my consent or the permission of anybody.' Thus spoke U.G. Krishnamurti in his uniquely iconoclastic and subversive way, distancing himself from gurus, spiritual 'advisers', mystics, sages, 'enlightened' philosophers et al. UG's only advice was that people should throw away their crutches and free themselves from the 'stranglehold' of cultural conditioning. Uppaluri Gopala Krishnamurti was born on 9 July 1918 in Masulipatnam, a coastal town in Andhra Pradesh. He died on 22 March 2007 at the age of eighty-nine in Vallecrosia, Italy, at the villa of a friend. The effect that he had, and will continue to have, on legions of his admirers is difficult to put into words. With his flowing silvery hair, deep-set eyes and elongated Buddha-like ears, he was an explosive yet cleansing presence and has been variously described as 'a wild flower of the earth', 'a bird in constant flight', an 'anti-guru' and a 'cosmic Naxalite'. UG gave no lectures or discourses and had no organization or fixed address, but he travelled all over the world to meet people who flocked to listen to his 'anti-teaching'.

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Metaphysics of War by Julius Evola (ePUB & AZW3)

This is the thoroughly revised edition of a collection of essays that Julius Evola originally wrote for Italian periodicals during the 1930s and '40s, having to do with the transcendental aspects of combat. It represents the development of Evola's thinking on war during the period of the Second World War and its aftermath.

These essays constitute what is certainly the most radical attempt ever made to justify war. This justification takes place essentially on two levels: one profane, the other sacred. At the profane (meaning simply “non-sacred”) level, Evola argues that war is one of the primary means by which heroism expresses itself, and he regards heroism as the noblest expression of the human spirit. Evola reminds us that war is a time in which both combatants and non-combatants realize that they may lose their lives and everything and everyone they value at any moment. This creates a unique moral opportunity for individuals to learn to detach themselves from material possessions, relationships, and concern for their own safety. War puts everything into perspective, and Evola states that it is in such times that “a greater number of persons are led towards an awakening, towards liberation” (p. 135).

According to Evola, the ancient Vedas held that there are two paths to enlightenment: contemplation and action. In traditional Indian terms, the former is the path of the brahmin and the latter of the kshatriya (the warrior caste). Both are forms of yoga, which literally means any practice that has as its aim connecting the individual to his true self, and to the source of all being (which are, in fact, the same thing). The yoga of action is referred to as karma yoga (where karma simply means “action”), and the primary text which teaches it is the Bhagavad-Gita. Evola returns again and again to the Bhagavad-Gita throughout The Metaphysics of War, and it really is the primary text to which Evola’s philosophy of “war as spiritual path” is indebted. The work forms part (a very small part, actually) of the epic poem Mahabharata, the story of which culminates in an apocalyptic war called Kurukshetra. On the eve of battle, the consummate warrior Arjuna (the Siegfried of the piece) surveys the two camps from afar and realizes that on his enemy’s side are many men who are his friends and relations. When Arjuna reflects on the fact that he will have to kill these men the following day, he falters. Fortunately, his charioteer–who is actually the god Krishna–is there to teach him the error of his ways. Krishna tells Arjuna that these men are already dead, for their deaths have been ordained by the gods. In killing them, Arjuna is simply doing his duty and playing his role as a warrior. He must set aside his personal feelings and concentrate on his duty; he must literally become a vehicle for the execution of the divine plan.

One might well ask, what’s in it for Arjuna? The answer is that this following of duty becomes a path by which he may triumph over his fears, his passions, his weaknesses–all those things that tie him to what is ephemeral. Following his duty becomes a way for Arjuna to rise above his lesser self and to connect with the divine. This is not mere piety or “love of God.” It is a way to tap into a superhuman source of power and wisdom. The result is that Arjuna becomes more than merely human.

In fact, Krishna puts Arjuna in a situation in which he must fight two wars. One, the “lesser” war is external–it is the one fought on the battlefield with swords and spears. The other, “greater” war is internal and is fought against the internal enemy: “passion, the animal thirst for life” (p. 52). Evola places a great deal of emphasis on this distinction. What Krishna really teaches Arjuna is that in order to fight the lesser war, he must fight the greater one. Really, unless one is able to conquer one’s weaknesses, nothing else may be accomplished. This opens up the possibility that there may be “warriors” who never fight in any conventional, “external” wars. These would be warriors of the spirit. Evola believes that one can be a true warrior without ever lifting a sword or a gun, by conquering the enemy within oneself. And he mentions initiatic cults, like Mithraism, which conceived of their members on the model of soldiers.

In combat one is lifted out of one’s ordinary self and, more specifically, out of one’s concern with the mundane cares of life. One enters into a state where one ceases even to care about personal survival. It is at this point that one has ceased to identify with the “animal” elements in the human personality and has tapped into that part of us that seems to be a divine spark. This is not, however, an intellectual state or “realization.” Instead, it is a new state of being, which pervades the entire person. The ancient Germans called it wut and odhr. And from these two words derive two of the names of the chief Germanic god: Wuotan and Odin. Odin is not, however, conceived simply as the god of war; he is also the god of wisdom and spiritual transformation.

Evola never was particularly interested in biological conceptions of race, because he believed that human nature as such was irreducible to biology. He opposed reductionism, in short, and believed in a spiritual (i.e., non-material) component to our identity. What Evola was most concerned to combat was a racialism that reduced heroism or mastery to simple membership in a race defined by certain biological characteristics. For Evola, heroism is really achieved in a step beyond the biological, and in mastery over it.

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A Traditionalist Confronts Fascism by Julius Evola (.ePUB & AZW3)

This volume, a companion to Evola’s Fascism Viewed from the Right and Notes on the Third Reich, contains many of his occasional essays on the topic of fascism as understood from a traditionalist perspective which were written between 1930 and 1971, thus comprising both his contemporary and post-war assessments of the fascist phenomenon. Here we find Evola’s views not only on Italian Fascism and German Nazism, but also his discussions of other movements such as the Spanish Falange and the Japanese Imperial ideal, as well as his commentary on such diverse subjects as Nazi esotericism, the idea of a new spiritual Order to lead Europe, and the reasons for his rejection of Nazi biological racism. Also included are interviews Evola personally conducted with Corneliu Codreanu, the leader of the Iron Guard, and Count Coudenhove-Kalergi, the founder of the Pan-European Movement (the forerunner of the European Union), and the full text of ‘Orientations’, the famous essay Evola wrote in 1950 concerning the proper approach of the European Right in the post-war era which he further developed in Men Among the Ruins. These essays show Evola to have been an unsparing critic of fascism, always urging traditionalists to aspire for something higher than the merely political.

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Aleister Crowley: The Beast in Berlin: Art, Sex, and Magick in the Weimar Republic by Tobias Churton (ePub & mobi)

A biographical history of Aleister Crowley’s activities in Berlin from 1930 to 1932 as Hitler was rising to power

• Examines Crowley’s focus on his art, his work as a spy for British Intelligence, his colorful love life and sex magick exploits, and his contacts with magical orders

• Explores Crowley’s relationships with Berlin’s artists, filmmakers, writers, and performers such as Christopher Isherwood, Jean Ross, and Aldous Huxley

• Recounts the fates of Crowley’s friends and colleagues under the Nazis as well as what happened to Crowley’s lost art exhibition

Gnostic poet, painter, writer, and magician Aleister Crowley arrived in Berlin on April 18, 1930. As prophet of his syncretic religion “Thelema,” he wanted to be among the leaders of art and thought, and Berlin, the liberated future-gazing metropolis, wanted him. There he would live, until his hurried departure on June 22, 1932, as Hitler was rapidly rising to power and the black curtain of intolerance came down upon the city.

Known to his friends affectionately as “The Beast,” Crowley saw the closing lights of Berlin’s artistic renaissance of the Weimar period when Berlin played host to many of the world’s most outstanding artists, writers, filmmakers, performers, composers, architects, philosophers, and scientists, including Albert Einstein, Bertolt Brecht, Ethel Mannin, Otto Dix, Aldous Huxley, Jean Ross, Christopher Isherwood, and many other luminaries of a glittering world soon to be trampled into the mud by the global bloodbath of World War II.

Drawing on previously unpublished letters and diary material by Crowley, Tobias Churton examines Crowley’s years in Berlin and his intense focus on his art, his work as a spy for British Intelligence, his colorful love life and sex magick exploits, and his contacts with German Theosophy, Freemasonry, and magical orders. He recounts the fates of Crowley’s colleagues under the Nazis as well as what happened to Crowley’s lost art exhibition--six crates of paintings left behind in Germany as the Gestapo was closing in. Revealing the real Crowley long hidden from the historical record, Churton presents “the Beast” anew in all his ambiguous and, for some, terrifying glory, at a blazing, seminal moment in the history of the world.

“As soon as I opened this book I knew I was in for an exceptional treat, and I was right. This is Churton at his best. His book focuses, with some broader contextualization, on Crowley’s intermittent sojourns in Berlin between 1930 and 1932, which climaxed in a sensational exhibition of his paintings in October 1931. We follow Crowley as he strolls through the city, dressed in a knickerbocker suit, proclaiming his gospel of Thelema, exploring Berlin’s extensive demi-monde, playing chess, painting, writing, fornicating, spying for British intelligence, and mingling with a remarkable constellation of artists, writers, philosophers, and occultists. One of his friends at the time was Christopher Isherwood, who fictionalized his own Berlin experience in the novel that later became the musical Cabaret. Churton, in his vivid, witty style, superbly captures the atmosphere of the city during that feverish, decadent, but immensely vibrant and creative era, which ended abruptly with the catastrophe of 1933. Move over, Isherwood. From now on we should be talking about ‘Crowley’s Berlin.’” (Christopher McIntosh, Ph.D., author and Honorary University Fellow and Western Esotericism lecturer)

“Yet again, Tobias Churton shows a unique ability to combine an approachable writing style with scholarly research and the result is an authoritative book on Crowley, the artist, a person who deserves to be re-assessed rather than be relegated to the dustbin of history.” (Sanda Miller, Ph.D., research fellow, History of Art, Southampton Solent University)

“A remarkable account of Baphomet in Berlin, full of fascinating new information on Crowley’s decadence and discipline as a Berlin Boy as Germany spiraled down into its apocalyptic picnic. Tobias Churton has uncovered much that is new and marvelously expands on and clarifies that which was already known. A wonderful evocation of the darkness becoming visible--a truly Manichæan history.” (David Tibet, founder of Current 93)

“Aleister Crowley: The Beast in Berlin is magic! Churton opens box after box of secrets in a dazzling display of research, erudition, and insight. Aleister Crowley is revealed in all his jaw-dropping splendor, plus warts. A genius forced to suffer fools, able to transcend misfortune, an adventurer in the worlds of art and war. His wisdom is both light and deep; the book is thrilling.” (Vanilla Beer, artist)

“It’s hard not to empathize with Crowley as portrayed in the book—a man possessed of more radical intelligence than most before or after, who probably came off a bit autistic in his time, dealing with constant trouble, power games and consistently overestimating both people’s intelligence and integrity. Though he stands so far above both the Theosophical movement and its heirs in the New Age and Neopagan Revival, much of Crowley’s life was overshadowed by his troubles with money, students, the press and local governments—all of which consistently seem to thwart him in his latter years. Despite all that, he left a body of work, and philosophy, of unparalleled clarity and value. But in Aleister Crowley: The Beast in Berlin—Art, Sex and Magick in the Weimer Republic, we get a better look at Crowley not as a symbol, but as a man of his time. Highly recommended.” (Ultraculture, Jason Jouv, August, 2014)

“The Beast in Berlin is an inspiring and engaging narrative of Aleister Crowley in the turbulent and cathartic years of Berlin in the early 1930s. Meticulously researched and filled with just enough biographical fact, informed speculation, dirty gossip and esoteric philosophy to keep you riveted from first word to last, Crowleyan scholar Tobias Churton has spun an entertaining and eye-opening tale documenting the reckless life of outsider artists living on the edge in a city on the brink of Apocalypse. Along the way we see the Beast play chess with Fernando Pessoa, correspond with Aldous Huxley, night crawl with Christopher Isherwood, spy, paint, incant, exorcise and interact artistically and sexually with a wide range of colorful, bizarre and nondescript characters—the absolute dregs of Berlin society. Perhaps the most readable and interesting book to catch the true spirit of Frater Perdurabo.” (John Zorn, Musician, July 2014)

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https://yadi.sk/d/Cc8MPl0PtN2PS

Season of the Witch: How the Occult Saved Rock and Roll by Peter Bebergal (ePUB)

This epic cultural and historical odyssey unearths the full influence of occult traditions on rock and roll -- from the Beatles to Black Sabbath -- and shows how the marriage between mysticism and music changed our world.

From the hoodoo-inspired sounds of Elvis Presley to the Eastern odysseys of George Harrison, from the dark dalliances of Led Zeppelin to the Masonic imagery of today’s hip-hop scene, the occult has long breathed life into rock and hip-hop—and, indeed, esoteric and supernatural traditions are a key ingredient behind the emergence and development of rock and roll.

With vivid storytelling and laser-sharp analysis, writer and critic Peter Bebergal illuminates this web of influences to produce the definitive work on how the occult shaped -- and saved -- popular music.

As Bebergal explains, occult and mystical ideals gave rock and roll its heart and purpose, making rock into more than just backbeat music, but into a cultural revolution of political, spiritual, sexual, and social liberation.

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https://yadi.sk/i/OBIObrd9tMNnS

Lords of Chaos: The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground by Michael Moynihan and Didrik Søderlind (ePUB)

“An unusual combination of true crime journalism, rock and roll reporting and underground obsessiveness, Lords of Chaos turns into one of the more fascinating reads in a long time.”—Denver Post

Chronicling the rise of the Black Metal subculture and the terrifying violence by its fans, "Lords of Chaos" takes readers on a tour of this antisocial, occult-influenced ideology that encourages violence and murder.

The 2003 edition of LORDS OF CHAOS is revised and expanded, adding fifty new pages, detailing outbreaks of Black Metal crime in Finland, Germany and the United States; and includes the secret history of occult Rock, a new section on Varg Vikernes’ promulgation of bizarre Aryan UFO theories, and material on the career of Hendrik Mobus, an international neo-Nazi fugitive. This award-winning exposé features hundreds of rare photos and exclusive interrogations with priests, police officers, Satanists, and leaders of demonic bands who believe the greater evil spawns the greatest glory.

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https://yadi.sk/i/A6vL6pj5tMNjh

Nightside of Eden by Kenneth Grant

The often obtuse and much maligned Kenneth Grant is probably one of the least understood occultist and writers of the 20th century. Within the shadowy world of the arcane and esoteric the reactions and opinions concerning Grant and his writings are passionate and varied. Some consider him the rightful successor of the legendary Aleister Crowley and the "Left Hand Path" while others consider him no more that a madman.

'Nightside of Eden' first published in '77 has taken almost as much negative criticism as the man himself. This is a book shunned by many, even feared by some. Words such as delusional and incoherent are among those used to describe this evocative text. I stand on the other side of the ongoing debate and consider it to be the most insightful and influential work on the qlipothic energies and their function and activity on the Tree of Life ever published. The major fault almost always pointed out by the detractors of this abstract work is the fact that almost no previous body of esoteric teaching concerning these qlipothic energies exist to support Grant's claims. It's this lack of quasi-historical validation that turns many away from the contents of this book.

Kenneth Grant's books are never an easy read and this one maybe one of the most difficult of all. Highly original and imaginative in content, Grant displays his impressive knowledge of arcane signs and symbols and an innate ability to blend the very personal aspects of thought and imagination with the more impersonal aspects of theory and practice.

One thing seems certain, there will never be a true consensus of opinion on the value, or lack of value of the 'Nightside of Eden.' Thus the debate rages on. Is it a masterpiece or the ranting and raving of an egomanical manic? Maybe the more important question would be, is it Atavastic Breakthrough or Psychotic Breakdown?

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https://mega.nz/#!lBAHHDiA!M52GeS6kBGmIBJkAZY0r2V1QcNlBpNeyzrYVUke-WFs