White Stains & The Nameless Novel: Flowers of Eros and Evil - Softcover
White Stains remains Aleister Crowley's most infamous work, his attempt at taking the Satanic/erotic decadencee of Baudelaire and ramping it up to new extremes of degradation, sexual depravity and demonic frenzy. Revelling in filth, Crowley includes odes to sodomy, fellatio, cunnilingus, analingus, rape, lesbianism, impotence, venereal disease, bestiality, sado-masochism, coprophilia, necrophila, blasphemy and devil-worship in this staggering, over-the-top compendium of eros and evil.
This new edition of White Stains also includes Crowley's rare later volume, The Nameless Novel (1904), a rampant pornographic novella written to stimulate and amuse his wife.
With a new introduction by Crowley scholar D M Mitchell, the book is illustrated with rare examples of Victorian erotic photography, making it a decorative document of fin-de-sicle erotica, as well as a unique compendium of Crowley's most outrageous and notorious literary output.
This new edition of White Stains also includes Crowley's rare later volume, The Nameless Novel (1904), a rampant pornographic novella written to stimulate and amuse his wife.
With a new introduction by Crowley scholar D M Mitchell, the book is illustrated with rare examples of Victorian erotic photography, making it a decorative document of fin-de-sicle erotica, as well as a unique compendium of Crowley's most outrageous and notorious literary output.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Aleister Crowley, born Edward Alexander Crowley, (12 October 1875 - 1 December 1947) was a British occultist, writer, mountaineer, philosopher, and mystic. He was an influential member in several occult organizations, including the Golden Dawn, the AA, and Ordo Templi Orientis (O.T.O.), and is bes
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
CAPITULUM PRIMUM
I came from a Bottomless Pit, began the Archbishop, and I have spent my life trying to get back. No sooner had I left my mother's breast than she put me on to her clitoris, and I was hardly laid in my father's arms before his doodle was between my baby legs and jerking its creamy essence into the sunny air of Rome, where, as you may be aware, I first drew breath. I was a healthy and well-formed child; my bauble nothing remarkable, but my bollocks peculiar for their enormous size and - as it subsequently proved - the amount and quality of the fluid they were able to secrete, while my anus, fostered as you may have noticed by the wise ambition of my maternal grandmother, attained such proportions, or rather elasticity, that I believe I could accommodate the cow-catcher of a Pacific Express, or crush the life out of the diminutive and tapering jockam of a centipede. There was a crocodile once - (he sighed, and broke off. I sympathetically kept silent).
My prick, as I have hinted, was the despair of a fond but pathic uncle. In vain did he resort to rubbings of asses' milk, to decoctions herbal, mystical, medical; it was found necessary to abandon the unequal contest and to relegate my contemptible garden-engine to the category of quickfirers, instead of the heavy piece of field artillery which we had hoped to produce. Its speed was indeed sufficient. At the great Gold Medal competition of the Spunk Society in 1904, I was able to satisfy no less than twenty-seven ladies, besides an exhibition frig in which I extinguished fourteen candles in sixteen attempts, thus taking the eighth prize, and special mention as the sole representative of my cloth who was able to support a child weighing fifty-six pounds on my erect lance-of-love alone, and thus accomplishing the act of sex with my hands tied behind my back. Poor little devil! As I came, she shot off my well-oiled plenipo and was immediately split up from the fork to the shoulders by the giant callibistris of Lord R...y, whose affection for a buttered bun is only equalled by the size of his Julius Caesar. This truly formidable weapon is worth a moment's digression. It hangs below the owner's knees, making the kilt an unconventional, if effective, wear...
I came from a Bottomless Pit, began the Archbishop, and I have spent my life trying to get back. No sooner had I left my mother's breast than she put me on to her clitoris, and I was hardly laid in my father's arms before his doodle was between my baby legs and jerking its creamy essence into the sunny air of Rome, where, as you may be aware, I first drew breath. I was a healthy and well-formed child; my bauble nothing remarkable, but my bollocks peculiar for their enormous size and - as it subsequently proved - the amount and quality of the fluid they were able to secrete, while my anus, fostered as you may have noticed by the wise ambition of my maternal grandmother, attained such proportions, or rather elasticity, that I believe I could accommodate the cow-catcher of a Pacific Express, or crush the life out of the diminutive and tapering jockam of a centipede. There was a crocodile once - (he sighed, and broke off. I sympathetically kept silent).
My prick, as I have hinted, was the despair of a fond but pathic uncle. In vain did he resort to rubbings of asses' milk, to decoctions herbal, mystical, medical; it was found necessary to abandon the unequal contest and to relegate my contemptible garden-engine to the category of quickfirers, instead of the heavy piece of field artillery which we had hoped to produce. Its speed was indeed sufficient. At the great Gold Medal competition of the Spunk Society in 1904, I was able to satisfy no less than twenty-seven ladies, besides an exhibition frig in which I extinguished fourteen candles in sixteen attempts, thus taking the eighth prize, and special mention as the sole representative of my cloth who was able to support a child weighing fifty-six pounds on my erect lance-of-love alone, and thus accomplishing the act of sex with my hands tied behind my back. Poor little devil! As I came, she shot off my well-oiled plenipo and was immediately split up from the fork to the shoulders by the giant callibistris of Lord R...y, whose affection for a buttered bun is only equalled by the size of his Julius Caesar. This truly formidable weapon is worth a moment's digression. It hangs below the owner's knees, making the kilt an unconventional, if effective, wear...
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherWet Angel Books
- Publication date2008
- ISBN 10 1902588703
- ISBN 13 9781902588704
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages192
- Rating
(No Available Copies)
Search Books: Create a WantIf you know the book but cannot find it on AbeBooks, we can automatically search for it on your behalf as new inventory is added. If it is added to AbeBooks by one of our member booksellers, we will notify you!
Create a Want