The Eternal Mistake Of Mankind Is To

It Sometimes Strikes Me That The Whole Of Science Is A Piece Of Impudence; That Nature Can Afford To Ignore Our Impertinent Interference. If Our Monkey Mischief Should Ever Reach The Point Of Blowing Up The Earth By Decomposing An Atom, And Even Annihilated The Sun Himself, I Cannot Really Suppose That The Universe Would Turn A Hair.

There Is A Splendour In My Name Hidden And Glorious, As The Sun Of Midnight Is Ever The Son.

To Train The Mind To Move With The Maximum Speed And Energy, With The Utmost Possible Accuracy In The Chosen Direction, And With The Minimum Of Disturbance Or Friction. That Is Magick. To Stop The Mind Altogether. That Is Yoga.

Acts Which Are Essentially Dishonourable Must Not Be Done; They Would Be Justified Only By Calm Contemplation Of Their Correctness In Abstract Cases.

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.