Jimmy called and asked me to find him some Aleister Crowley paraphernalia that might have wound up in some old Hollywood bookstore, and I took this as a sign of love. The reality was, of course, that he knew I would go dig up this horrible stuff and send it straight to England. I didn’t know it, but he was in the process of buying Mr. Crowley’s estate in Scotland. He also got a hold of his cloak somehow, and I could picture his white skin draped in grandiose darkness and I worried that he might be getting obsessed with the black vibe.
