  of the little green hill, she could see nothing but pain. dark green was her moan and brittle. he took her hand in the dream, a dark prophet chanting from the cards of a sodomizer. aleister crowley. there has never been anyone so cold as him, yet so blazing. that is what i shall write about--the story of this relationship between the painter and her master. that is what i must write. yeats knew, maugham knew, the golden flower knew, did Jung know? 
