Having spent the day musing over the origins of the modern
witchcraft, I had a vivid dream. It seemed to be a cold January
afternoon, and Aleister Crowley was having Gerald Gardner over
to tea. It was 1945, and talk of an early end to the war was
in the air. An atmosphere of optimism prevailed in the "free
world" , but the wheezing old magus was having none of it.
"Nobody is interested in magick any more!" Crowley ejaculated.
"My friends on the Continent are dead or in exile, or grown old;
the movement in America is in shambles. I've seen my best
candidates turn against me....Achad, Regardie -- even that
gentleman out in California, what's - his - name, AMORC, the
one that made all the money.."

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