John S Moore
I once had a book published but I didn't write it. It was called Crowley: A Beginner's Guide and was written by John S Moore and illustrated by me.
I didn't know John very well but we went for a few pints together at a few dusty and over-looked pubs in Tollington Park. He was everything you wanted an academic with an interest in sex magick to be: the hair and beard of an old testament Jehovah, the heavy Bakelite frames of a Doomwatch boffin, and the twinkle in the eye of somebody who knew more than he was letting on.
You could have imagined him in battered tweeds and a leather armchair leafing through a grimoire, a balloon brandy never far from his hand, his eyes widening as he reads about the approaching apocalypse. He was an occultist from Central Casting. None of which would have occurred to him. He just loved all this stuff.
We had a few beers and sketched out a few plans and he tolerated me. I can still recall the wincing smile as I informed him that most of my knowledge of The Great Beast, The Wickedest Man Alive came from a Colin Wilson biography! I got the distinct impression that Wilson was infra-dig, but John never said a word. He got a couple more beers in.
We went away and I started the arduous task of drawing Bowie, The Hellfire Club, Nietzsche and a British Army Officer up to his neck in poo, among other things. Then everything went wrong: my wife got ill, we moved house and country, I gave up my job and eventually Kelly died. I became a depressed drunk and sat around the house, unable to and unwanting to continue the drawings. John was a perfect gent about it. He didn't push me. He didn't threaten me. He gave me space and time and eventually, and with the help of his son Al, I got the final pictures finished and the book was published.
I'll never forget that decency, kindness and restraint.
John died this week. My thoughts are with his son, Al. I shall toast you soon, John. Do What Thou Wilt.
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You could have imagined him in battered tweeds and a leather armchair leafing through a grimoire, a balloon brandy never far from his hand, his eyes widening as he reads about the approaching apocalypse. He was an occultist from Central Casting. None of which would have occurred to him. He just loved all this stuff.
We had a few beers and sketched out a few plans and he tolerated me. I can still recall the wincing smile as I informed him that most of my knowledge of The Great Beast, The Wickedest Man Alive came from a Colin Wilson biography! I got the distinct impression that Wilson was infra-dig, but John never said a word. He got a couple more beers in.
We went away and I started the arduous task of drawing Bowie, The Hellfire Club, Nietzsche and a British Army Officer up to his neck in poo, among other things. Then everything went wrong: my wife got ill, we moved house and country, I gave up my job and eventually Kelly died. I became a depressed drunk and sat around the house, unable to and unwanting to continue the drawings. John was a perfect gent about it. He didn't push me. He didn't threaten me. He gave me space and time and eventually, and with the help of his son Al, I got the final pictures finished and the book was published.
I'll never forget that decency, kindness and restraint.
John died this week. My thoughts are with his son, Al. I shall toast you soon, John. Do What Thou Wilt.
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