User Profile

I had hardly entered the room where the masters were playing when I was seized with what may justly be described as a mystical experience. I seemed to be looking on at the tournament from outside myself. I saw the masters — one, shabby, snuffy and blear-eyed; another, in badly fitting would-be respectable shoddy; a third, a mere parody of humanity, and so on for the rest. These were the people to whose ranks I was seeking admission. "There, but for the grace of God, goes [Aleister Crowley]," I exclaimed to myself with disgust, and there and then I registered a vow never to play another serious game of [chess]. I perceived with preternatural lucidity that I had not alighted on this planet with the object of playing [chess].



Presenting myself as [Mr Crowley Mr Martin], skilled in dice and fond of play, I shall become a courtier of that high-souled king. And moving upon [chess-boards] beautiful pawns made of ivory, of blue and yellow and red and white hue, by throws of black and red dice. I shall entertain the king with his courtiers and friends.



I requested Mr. [Martin] to begin to play his games; I implored him to begin to play his games; I pointed out to him the propriety of beginning to play his games; I showed him that the best traditions of England (which had made her what she was) spoke with no uncertain voice to the effect that he should begin to play his games. All this settled down to a weekly chorus a la Cato: Delenda est Carthago. Whatever the subject of my discourse, it invariably ended, "Mr. [Martin] has not yet begun to play his games."