I got a bottle of this wine yesterday, purely because of the name on the bottle. The winery took its name from the works of Rabelais, as Crowley did.
I hesitate to pull the cork and sip the wine.
Why? Is this hesitation symbolic, or is merely because I do not want to see this potential poured out, this packet of delight transformed into an empty bottle? Is there a ritual waiting to be formulated, a sacrament waiting to be performed with with this wine?
Wine is as sacred as one makes it. I put it up for later. There will be a time and a place for this cork to be pulled. Perhaps I’ll be invited to a meeting of the Hellfire Club and I’ll need a bottle for a toast, or perhaps some other rite is coming in due time.
I recently read Rick Russell’s The Colleagues of Professor Van Helsing over at Smashwords. This book was really fun (and hard to beat for 99 cents).
I had been intending to read something by Machen and Blackwood, and had long thought it would be fun to read some of Aleister Crowley’s fiction, so I was very excited to find this book. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Mr. Russell’s introductions to each tale are worthy and sound, as is his prologue, and I may well read more of his compilations. My only criticism is that Mr. Russell did not include the original publication date for each story, but that omission doesn’t diminish enjoyment.
I must say that the most unsettling of all the tales was Crowley’s “An Old Head on Young Shoulders.”
Go check out Rick’s book, and while you’re there, check out mine too.