And Crowley said: “What is there in absinthe that makes it a separate cult? The
effects of its abuse are totally distinct from those of other stimulants. Even in ruin and in degradation it remains a thing apart: its victims wear a ghastly aureole all their own, and in
their peculiar hell yet gloat with a sinister perversion of pride that they are not as other men.”
Always going over the deep end our Mr. Crowley. A very longish poem to the joys of Absinthe by the master himself.
On the Menu:
The Pledge (turn up your speakers)
Absinthe, the Green Goddess by Aleister Crowley
Luminos ~ By Kirk Jones…
My husband gave me a necklace. It’s fake. I requested fake. Maybe I’m paranoid, but in this day and age, I don’t want something around my neck that’s worth more than my head.”
“It’s not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over.”
“If we don’t succeed, we run the risk of failure.”
“Electricity is actually made up of extremely tiny particles called electrons, that you cannot see with the naked eye unless you have been drinking.”
“The future is here. It’s just not widely distributed yet.”
“I prefer the company of peasants because they have not been educated sufficiently to reason incorrectly.”
“Last night I stayed up late playing poker with Tarot cards. I got a full house and four people died.”
“Education is a state-controlled manufactory of echoes.”
Amazing, really. Flexible, flexible!
The Greatest Show in the Quadrant: Humanitys Impending Flame-out
Did Einstein Praise the Church?
Buy your own Snail Herd…
The Global Spread of GMO Crops
Media’s War Images Delude Instead of Inform
The Pledge – Turn Your Speakers On!
Absinthe: The Green Goddess
by Aleister Crowley
Keep always this dim corner for me, that I may sit while the
Green Hour glides, a proud pavine of Time. For I am no longer in
the city accursed, where Time is horsed on the white gelding
Death, his spurs rusted with blood.
There is a corner of the United States which he has overlooked.
It lies in New Orleans, between Canal Street and Esplanade
Avenue; the Mississippi for its base. Thence it reaches northward
to a most curious desert land, where is a cemetery lovely beyond
dreams. Its walls low and whitewashed, within which straggles a
wilderness of strange and fantastic tombs; and hard by is that
great city of brothels which is so cynically mirthful a neighbor.
As Felicien Rops wrote,–or was it Edmond d’Haraucourt?–”la
Prostitution et la Mort sont frere et soeur–les fils de Dieu!”
At least the poet of Le Legende des Sexes was right, and the
psycho-analysts after him, in identifying the Mother with the
Tomb. This, then, is only the beginning and end of things, this
“quartier macabre” beyond the North Rampart with the Mississippi
on the other side. It is like the space between, our life which
flows, and fertilizes as it flows, muddy and malarious as it may
be, to empty itself into the warm bosom of the Gulf Stream, which
(in our allegory) we may call the Life of God.
But our business is with the heart of things; we must go beyond
the crude phenomena of nature if we are to dwell in the spirit.
Art is the soul of life and the Old Absinthe House is heart and
soul of the old quarter of New Orleans.
For here was the headquarters of no common man–no less than a
real pirate–of Captain Lafitte, who not only robbed his
neighbors, but defended them against invasion. Here, too, sat
Henry Clay, who lived and died to give his name to a cigar.
Outside this house no man remembers much more of him than that;
but here, authentic and, as I imagine, indignant, his ghost stalks grimly.
Here, too are marble basins hollowed–and hallowed!–by the
drippings of the water which creates by baptism the new spirit of absinthe.
I am only sipping the second glass of that “fascinating, but
subtle poison, whose ravages eat men’s heart and brain” that I
have ever tasted in my life; and as I am not an American anxious
for quick action, I am not surprised and disappointed that I do
not drop dead upon the spot. But I can taste souls without the
aid of absinthe; and besides, this is magic of absinthe! The
spirit of the house has entered into it; it is an elixir, the
masterpiece of an old alchemist, no common wine.
And so, as I talk with the patron concerning the vanity of
things, I perceive the secret of the heart of God himself; this,
that everything, even the vilest thing, is so unutterably lovely
that it is worthy of the devotion of a God for all eternity.
What other excuse could He give man for making him? In substance,
that is my answer to King Solomon.
The barrier between divine and human things is frail but
inviolable; the artist and the bourgeois are only divided by a
point of view–”A hair divided the false and true.”
I am watching the opalescence of my absinthe, and it leads me to
ponder upon a certain very curious mystery, persistent in legend.
We may call it the mystery of the rainbow.
Originally in the fantastic but significant legend of the
Hebrews, the rainbow is mentioned as the sign of salvation. The
world has been purified by water, and was ready for the
revelation of Wine. God would never again destroy His work, but
ultimately seal its perfection by a baptism of fire.
Now, in this analogue also falls the coat of many colors which
was made for Joseph, a legend which was regarded as so important
that it was subsequently borrowed for the romance of Jesus. The
veil of the Temple, too, was of many colors. We find, further
east, that the Manipura Cakkra–the Lotus of the City of
Jewels–which is an important centre in Hindu anatomy, and
apparently identical with the solar plexus, is the central point
of the nervous system of the human body, dividing the sacred from
the profane, or the lower from the higher.
In western Mysticism, once more we learn that the middle grade
initiation is called Hodos Camelioniis, the Path of the
Chameleon. There is here evidently an illusion to this same
mystery. We also learn that the middle stage in Alchemy is when
the liquor becomes opalescent.
Finally, we note among the visions of the Saints one called the
Universal Peacock, in which the totality is perceived thus
Would it were possible to assemble in this place the cohorts of
quotation; for indeed they are beautiful with banners, flashing
their myriad rays from cothurn and habergeon, gay and gallant in
the light of that Sun which knows no fall from Zenith of high noon!
Yet I must needs already have written so much to make clear one
pitiful conceit: can it be that in the opalescence of absinthe is
some occult link with this mystery of the Rainbow? For
undoubtedly one does indefinably and subtly insinuate the drinker
in the secret chamber of Beauty, does kindle his thoughts to
rapture, adjust his point of view to that of the artists, at
least to that degree of which he is originally capable, weave for
his fancy a gala dress of stuff as many-colored as the mind of Aphrodite.
Oh Beauty! Long did I love thee, long did I pursue thee, thee
elusive, thee intangible! And lo! thou enfoldest me by night and
day in the arms of gracious, of luxurious, of shimmering silence.
The Prohibitionist must always be a person of no moral character;
for he cannot even conceive of the possibility of a man capable
of resisting temptation. Still more, he is so obsessed, like the
savage, by the fear of the unknown, that he regards alcohol as a
fetish, necessarily alluring and tyrannical.
With this ignorance of human nature goes an ever grosser
ignorance of the divine nature. He does not understand that the
universe has only one possible purpose; that, the business of
life being happily completed by the production of the necessities
and luxuries incidental to comfort, the residuum of human energy
needs an outlet. The surplus of Will must find issue in the
elevation of the individual towards the Godhead; and the method
of such elevation is by religion, love, and art. These three
things are indissolubly bound up with wine, for they are species of intoxication.
Yet against all these things we find the prohibitionist,
logically enough. It is true that he usually pretends to admit
religion as a proper pursuit for humanity; but what a religion!
He has removed from it every element of ecstasy or even of
devotion; in his hands it has become cold, fanatical, cruel, and
stupid, a thing merciless and formal, without sympathy or
humanity. Love and art he rejects altogether; for him the only
meaning of love is a mechanical–hardly even
physiological!–process necessary for the perpetuation of the
human race. (But why perpetuate it?) Art is for him the parasite
and pimp of love. He cannot distinguish between the Apollo
Belvedere and the crude bestialities of certain Pompeian
frescoes, or between Rabelais and Elenor Glyn.
What then is his ideal of human life? one cannot say. So crass a
creature can have no true ideal. There have been ascetic
philosophers; but the prohibitionist would be as offended by
their doctrine as by ours, which, indeed, are not so dissimilar as appears.
Wage-slavery and boredom seem to complete his outlook on the world.
There are species which survive because of the feeling of disgust
inspired by them: one is reluctant to set the heel firmly upon
them, however thick may be one’s boots. But when they are
recognized as utterly noxious to humanity–the more so that they
ape its form–then courage must be found, or, rather, nausea must
be swallowed. May God send us a Saint George!
It is notorious that all genius is accompanied by vice. Almost
always this takes the form of sexual extravagance. It is to be
observed that deficiency, as in the cases of Carlyle and Ruskin,
is to be reckoned as extravagance. At least the word abnormalcy
will fit all cases. Farther, we see that in a very large number
of great men there has also been indulgence in drink or drugs.
There are whole periods when practically every great man has been
thus marked, and these periods are those during which the heroic
spirit has died out of their nation, and the bourgeois is apparently triumphant.
In this case the cause is evidently the horror of life induced in
the artist by the contemplation of his surroundings. He must find
another world, no matter at what cost.
Consider the end of the eighteenth century. In France the men of
genius are made, so to speak, possible, by the Revolution. In
England, under Castlereagh, we find Blake lost to humanity in
mysticism, Shelley and Byron exiles, Coleridge taking refuge in
opium, Keats sinking under the weight of circumstance, Wordsworth
forced to sell his soul, while the enemy, in the persons of
Southey and Moore, triumphantly holds sway.
The poetically similar period in France is 1850 to 1870. Hugo is
in exile, and all his brethren are given to absinthe or to
hashish or to opium.
There is however another consideration more important. There are
some men who possess the understanding of the City of God, and
know not the keys; or, if they possess them, have not force to
turn them in the wards. Such men often seek to win heaven by
forged credentials. Just so a youth who desires love is too often
deceived by simulacra, embraces Lydia thinking her to be Lalage.
But the greatest men of all suffer neither the limitations of the
former class nor the illusions of the latter. Yet we find them
equally given to what is apparently indulgence. Lombroso has
foolishly sought to find the source of this in madness–as if
insanity could scale the peaks of Progress while Reason recoiled
from the bergschrund. The explanation is far otherwise. Imagine
to yourself the mental state of him who inherits or attains the
full consciousness of the artist, that is to say, the divine consciousness.
He finds himself unutterably lonely, and he must steel himself to
endure it. All his peers are dead long since! Even if he find an
equal upon earth, there can scarcely be companionship, hardly
more than the far courtesy of king to king.
There are no twin souls in genius.
Good–he can reconcile himself to the scorn of the world. But yet
he feels with anguish his duty towards it. It is therefore
essential to him to be human.
Now the divine consciousness is not full flowered in youth. The
newness of the objective world preoccupies the soul for many
years. It is only as each illusion vanishes before the magic of
the master that he gains more and more the power to dwell in the
world of Reality. And with this comes the terrible
temptation–the desire to enter and enjoy rather than remain
among men and suffer their illusions. Yet, since the sole purpose
of the incarnation of such a Master was to help humanity, they
must make the supreme renunciation. It is the problem of the
dreadful bridge of Islam, Al Sirak–the razor-edge will cut the
unwary foot, yet it must be trodden firmly, or the traveler will
fall to the abyss. I dare not sit in the Old Absinthe House
forever, wrapped in the ineffable delight of the Beatific Vision.
I must write this essay, that men may thereby come at last to
understand true things. But the operation of the creative godhead
is not enough. Art is itself too near the reality which must be
renounced for a season.
Therefore his work is also part of his temptation; the genius
feels himself slipping constantly heavenward. The gravitation of
eternity draws him. He is like a ship torn by the tempest from
the harbor where the master must needs take on new passengers to
the Happy Isles. So he must throw out anchors and the only
holding is the mire! Thus in order to maintain the equilibrium of
sanity, the artist is obliged to seek fellowship with the
grossest of mankind. Like Lord Dunsany or Augustus John, today,
or like Teniers or old, he may love to sit in taverns where
sailors frequent; or he may wander the country with Gypsies, or
he may form liaisons with the vilest men and women. Edward
Fitzgerald would see an illiterate fisherman and spend weeks in
his company. Verlaine made associates of Rimbaud and Bibi la
Puree. Shakespeare consorted with the Earls of Pembroke and
Southampton. Marlowe was actually killed during a brawl in a low
tavern. And when we consider the sex-relation, it is hard to
mention a genius who had a wife or mistress of even tolerable
good character. If he had one, he would be sure to neglect her
for a Vampire or a Shrew. A good woman is too near that heaven of
Reality which he is sworn to renounce!
And this, I suppose, is why I am interested in the woman who has
come to sit at the nearest table. Let us find out her story; let
us try to see with the eyes of her soul!
She is a woman of no more than thirty years of age, though she
looks older. She comes here at irregular intervals, once a week
or once a month, but when she comes she sits down to get solidly
drunk on that alternation of beer and gin which the best
authorities in England deem so efficacious.
As to her story, it is simplicity itself. She was kept in luxury
for some years by a wealthy cotton broker, crossed to Europe with
him, and lived in London and Paris like a Queen. Then she got the
idea of “respectability” and “settling down in life”; so she
married a man who could keep her in mere comfort. Result:
repentance, and a periodical need to forget her sorrows. She is
still “respectable”; she never tires of repeating that she is not
one of “those girls” but “a married woman living far uptown,” and
that she “never runs about with men.”
It is not the failure of marriage; it is the failure of men to
recognize what marriage was ordained to be. By a singular paradox
it is the triumph of the bourgeois. Only the hero is capable of
marriage as the church understands it; for the marriage oath is a
compact of appalling solemnity, an alliance of two souls against
the world and against fate, with invocation of the great blessing
of the Most High. Death is not the most beautiful of adventures,
as Frohman said, for death is unavoidable; marriage is a
voluntary heroism. That marriage has today become a matter of
convenience is the last word of the commercial spirit. It is as
if one should take a vow of knighthood to combat dragons-
-until the dragons appeared.
So this poor woman, because she did not understand that
respectability is a lie, that it is love that makes marriage
sacred and not the sanction of church or state, because she took
marriage as an asylum instead of as a crusade, has failed in
life, and now seeks alcohol under the same fatal error.
Wine is the ripe gladness which accompanies valor and rewards
toil; it is the plume on a man’s lancehead, a fluttering
gallantry–not good to lean upon. Therefore her eyes are glassed
with horror as she gazes uncomprehending upon her fate. That
which she did all to avoid confronts her: she does not realize
that, had she faced it, it would have fled with all the other
phantoms. For the sole reality of this universe is God.
The Old Absinthe House is not a place. It is not bounded by four
walls. It is headquarters to an army of philosophies. From this
dim corner let me range, wafting thought through every air,
salient against every problem of mankind: for it will always
return like Noah’s dove to this ark, this strange little
sanctuary of the Green Goddess which has been set down not upon
Ararat, but by the banks of the “Father of Waters.”
Ah! the Green Goddess! What is the fascination that makes her so
adorable and so terrible? Do you know that French sonnet “La
legende de l’absinthe?” He must have loved it well, that poet.
Here are his witnesses.
Apollon, qui pleurait le trepas d’Hyacinthe,
Ne voulait pas ceder la victoire a la mort.
Il fallait que son ame, adepte de l’essor,
Trouvat pour la beaute une alchemie plus sainte.
Donc de sa main celeste il epuise, il ereinte
Les dons les plus subtils de la divine Flore.
Leurs corps brises souspirent une exhalaison d’or
Dont il nous recueillait la goutte de–l’Absinthe!
Aux cavernes blotties, aux palis petillants,
Par un, par deux, buvez ce breuvage d’aimant!
Car c’est un sortilege, un propos de dictame,
Ce vin d’opale pale avortit la misere,
Ouvre de la beaute l’intime sanctuaire
–Ensorcelle mon coeur, extasie mort ame!
What is there in absinthe that makes it a separate cult? The
effects of its abuse are totally distinct from those of other
stimulants. Even in ruin and in degradation it remains a thing
apart: its victims wear a ghastly aureole all their own, and in
their peculiar hell yet gloat with a sinister perversion of pride
that they are not as other men.
But we are not to reckon up the uses of a thing by contemplating
the wreckage of its abuse. We do not curse the sea because of
occasional disasters to our marines, or refuse axes to our
woodsmen because we sympathize with Charles the First or Louis
the Sixteenth. So therefore as special vices and dangers
pertinent to absinthe, so also do graces and virtues that adorn
no other liquor.
The word is from the Greek apsinthion. It means “undrinkable” or,
according to some authorities, “undelightful.” In either case,
strange paradox! No: for the wormwood draught itself were bitter
beyond human endurance; it must be aromatized and mellowed with other herbs.
Chief among these is the gracious Melissa, of which the great
Paracelsus thought so highly that he incorporated it as the
preparation of his Ens Melissa Vitae, which he expected to be an
elixir of life and a cure for all diseases, but which in his
hands never came to perfection.
Then also there are added mint, anise, fennel and hyssop, all
holy herbs familiar to all from the Treasury of Hebrew Scripture.
And there is even the sacred marjoram which renders man both
chaste and passionate; the tender green angelica stalks also
infused in this most mystic of concoctions; for like the
artemisia absinthium itself it is a plant of Diana, and gives the
purity and lucidity, with a touch of the madness, of the Moon;
and above all there is the Dittany of Crete of which the eastern
Sages say that one flower hath more puissance in high magic than
all the other gifts of all the gardens of the world. It is as if
the first diviner of absinthe had been indeed a magician intent
upon a combination of sacred drugs which should cleanse, fortify
and perfume the human soul.
And it is no doubt that in the due employment of this liquor such
effects are easy to obtain. A single glass seems to render the
breathing freer, the spirit lighter, the heart more ardent, soul
and mind alike more capable of executing the great task of doing
that particular work in the world which the Father may have sent
them to perform. Food itself loses its gross qualities in the
presence of absinthe and becomes even as manna, operating the
sacrament of nutrition without bodily disturbance.
Let then the pilgrim enter reverently the shrine, and drink his
absinthe as a stirrup-cup; for in the right conception of this
life as an ordeal of chivalry lies the foundation of every
perfection of philosophy. “Whatsoever ye do, whether ye eat or
drink, do all to the glory of God!” applies with singular force
to the absintheur. So may he come victorious from the battle of
life to be received with tender kisses by some green-robed
archangel, and crowned with mystic vervain in the Emerald Gateway
of the Golden City of God.
And now the cafe is beginning to fill up. This little room with
its dark green woodwork, its boarded ceiling, its sanded floor,
its old pictures, its whole air of sympathy with time, is
beginning to exert its magic spell. Here comes a curious child,
short and sturdy, with a long blonde pigtail, with a jolly little
old man who looks as if he had stepped straight out of the pages of Balzac.
Handsome and diminutive, with a fierce mustache almost as big as
the rest of him, like a regular little Spanish fighting
cock–Frank, the waiter, in his long white apron, struts to them
with the glasses of ice-cold pleasure, green as the glaciers
themselves. He will stand up bravely with the musicians bye and
bye, and sing us a jolly song of old Catalonia.
The door swings open again. A tall dark girl, exquisitely slim
and snaky, with masses of black hair knotted about her head,
comes in. On her arm is a plump woman with hungry eyes, and a
mass of Titian red hair. They seem distracted from the outer
world, absorbed in some subject of enthralling interest and they
drink their aperitif as if in a dream. I ask the mulatto boy who
waits at my table (the sleek and lithe black panther!) who they
are; but he knows only that one is a cabaret dancer, the other
the owner of a cotton plantation up river. At a round table in
the middle of the room sits one of the proprietors with a group
of friends; he is burly, rubicund, and jolly, the very type of
the Shakespearean “Mine host.” Now a party of a dozen merry boys
and girls comes in. The old pianist begins to play a dance, and
in a moment the whole cafe is caught up in the music of
harmonious motion. Yet still the invisible line is drawn about
each soul; the dance does not conflict with the absorption of the
two strange women, or with my own mood of detachment.
Then there is a “little laughing lewd gamine” dressed all in
black save for a square white collar. Her smile is broad and free
as the sun and her gaze as clean and wholesome and inspiring.
There is the big jolly blonde Irish girl in the black velvet
beret and coat, and the white boots, chatting with two boys in
khaki from the border. There is the Creole girl in pure white
cap-a-pie, with her small piquant face and its round button of a
nose, and its curious deep rose flush, and its red little mouth,
impudently smiling. Around these islands seems to flow as a
general tide the more stable life of the quarter. Here are honest
good-wives seriously discussing their affairs, and heaven only
knows if it be love or the price of sugar which engages them so
wholly. There are but a few commonplace and uninteresting
elements in the cafe; and these are without exception men. The
giant Big Business is a great tyrant! He seizes all the men for
slaves, and leaves the women to make shift as best they can
for–all that makes life worth living. Candies and American
Beauty Roses are of no use in an emergency. So, even in this most
favored corner, there is dearth of the kind of men that women need.
At the table next to me sits an old, old man. He has done great
things in his day, they tell me, an engineer, who first found it
possible to dig Artesian wells in the Sahara desert. The Legion
of Honor glows red in his shabby surtout. He comes here, one of
the many wrecks of the Panama Canal, a piece of jetsam cast up by
that tidal wave of speculation and corruption. He is of the old
type, the thrifty peasantry; and he has his little income from
the Rente. He says that he is too old to cross the ocean–and why
should he, with the atmosphere of old France to be had a stone’s
throw from his little apartment in Bourbon Street? It is a
curious type of house that one finds in this quarter in New
Orleans; meagre without, but within one comes unexpectedly upon
great spaces, carved wooden balconies on which the rooms open. So
he dreams away his honored days in the Old Absinthe House. His
rusty black, with its worn red button, is a noble wear.
Black, by the way, seems almost universal among the women: is it
instinctive good taste? At least, it serves to bring up the
general level of good looks. Most American women spoil what
little beauty they may have by overdressing. Here there is
nothing extravagant, nothing vulgar, none of the near-Paris-gown
and the lust-off-Bond-Street hat. Nor is there a single dress to
which a Quaker could object. There is neither the mediocrity nor
the immodesty of the New York woman, who is tailored or
millinered on a garish pattern, with the Eternal Chorus Girl as
the Ideal–an ideal which she always attains, though (Heaven
knows!) in “society” there are few “front row” types.
On the other side of me a splendid stalwart maid, modern in
muscle, old only in the subtle and modest fascination of her
manner, her face proud, cruel and amorous, shakes her wild
tresses of gold in pagan laughter. Her mood is universal as the
wind. What can her cavalier be doing to keep her waiting? It is a
little mystery which I will not solve for the reader; on the contrary–
Yes, it was my own sweetheart (no! not all the magazines can
vulgarize that loveliest of words) who was waiting for me to be
done with my musings. She comes in silently and stealthily,
preening and purring like a great cat, and sits down, and begins
to Enjoy. She know I must never be disturbed until I close my
pen. We shall go together to dine at a little Italian restaurant
kept by an old navy man, who makes the best ravioli this side of
Genoa; then we shall walk the wet and windy streets, rejoicing to
feel the warm sub-tropical rain upon our faces. We shall go down
to the Mississippi, and watch the lights of the ships, and listen
to the tales of travel and adventure of the mariners. There is
one tale that moves me greatly; it is like the story of the
sentinel of Herculaneum. A cruiser of the U.S. Navy was detailed
to Rio de Janeiro. (This was before the days of wireless
telegraphy.) The port was in quarantine; the ship had to stand
ten miles out to sea. Nevertheless, Yellow Jack managed to come
aboard. The men died one by one. There was no way of getting word
to Washington; and, as it turned out later, the Navy Department
had completely forgotten the existence of the ship. No orders
came; the captain stuck to his post for three months. Three
months of solitude and death! At last a passing ship was
signaled, and the cruiser was moved to happier waters. No doubt
the story is a lie; but did that make it less splendid in the
telling, as the old scoundrel sat and spat and chewed tobacco?
No, we will certainly go down, and ruffle it on the wharves.
There is really better fun in life than going to the movies, when
you know how to sense Reality.
There is beauty in every incident of life; the true and the
alse, the wise and the foolish, are all one in the eye that
beholds all without passion or prejudice: and the secret appears
to lie not in the retirement from the world, but in keeping a
part of oneself Vestal, sacred, intact, aloof from that self
which makes contact with the external universe. In other words,
in a separation of that which is and perceives from that which
acts and suffers. And the art of doing this is really the art of
being an artist. As a rule, it is a birthright; it may perhaps be
attained by prayer and fasting; most surely, it can never be bought.
But if you have it not. This will be the best way to get it–or
something like it. Give up your life completely to the task; sit
daily for six hours in the Old Absinthe House, and sip the icy
opal; endure till all things change insensibly before your eyes,
you changing with them; till you become as gods, knowing good and
evil, and that they are not two but one.
It may be a long time before the veil lifts; but a moment’s
experience of the point of view of the artist is worth a myriad
martyrdoms. It solves every problem of life and death-
-which two also are one.
It translates this universe into intelligible terms, relating
truly the ego with the non-ego, and recasting the prose of reason
in the poetry of soul. Even as the eye of the sculptor beholds
his masterpiece already existing in the shapeless mass of marble,
needing only the loving kindness of the chisel to cut away the
veils of Isis, so you may (perhaps) learn to behold the sum and
summit of all grace and glory from this great observatory, the
Old Absinthe House of New Orleans.
Kirk Jones ~ Luminos