I did not hate God or Christ, but merely the God and Christ of the people whom I hated.

I've written this to keep from crying. But I am crying, only the tears won't come.

The first task of the Magician in every ceremony is therefore to render his Circle absolutely impregnable.

This complaining rambling rubbish is the substitute which has taken the place of love.

Having to talk destroys the symphony of silence.

I can imagine myself on my death-bed, spent utterly with lust to touch the next world, like a boy asking for his first kiss from a woman.

If you examine the highest poetry in the light of common sense, you can only say that it is rubbish; and in actual fact you cannot so examine it at all, because there is something in poetry which is not in the words themselves, which is not in the images suggested by the words 'O windy star blown sideways up the sky!' True poetry is itself a magic spell which is a key to the ineffable.