I passed my medical examination in 1897, after five years at St. Thomas'.When I was still a medical student, I published a novel called "The Book of Medicine", which caused a slight sensation, so I rashly decided to abandon medicine and pursue literature.So, as soon as I got my qualifications, I set off for Spain and lived in Seville for a while, which was the most beautiful time of the year.During this time I entertained myself and wrote a lousy novel.Then I went back to London, got an apartment near Victoria Station with a friend of my own age, and simply added some furniture.We had a maid who did all sorts of chores cook and clean the house for us.My friend works at a bar, so I can write at home alone during the day.During the next six years I wrote a number of novels and plays, but only one novel was moderately successful, though still not quite the sensation my first novel caused.At that time, no manager was willing to accept my script. Finally, in desperation, I sent "A Decent Man" to the London Drama Club.As we all know, it was the London Drama Society that took over Shaw's early works.The London Drama Society puts on two shows a week, one on Sunday night and one on Monday afternoon, with productions not suited to commercial theatre, but beloved by cultural people."A Respectable Man" was accepted by the Drama Society. WL Courtney, who was on the committee, thought the show was so good that it was published in the Half Moon Review he edited.It's something I'm proud of.

Although my many efforts did not bring me a substantial income, they did attract the attention of many people and I made many friends as a result.I was considered a promising young writer and (I say this not egotistically) accepted into intellectual circles.It was very respectable, and I lost it a few years later when I became a popular writer of light comedy, and never got it back.I was often invited to literary parties and parties given by high society ladies who thought it their duty to support the arts.Single, decent young people are always welcome, so I have dinner all day long.I didn't have the money to take a taxi, so I had to wear a tuxedo and white tie (as was the norm at the time) to ride the bus back and forth.I'm also often invited to spend weekends in the country.This was a test for me, as the butler and the servant who brought my morning tea were all waiting for a tip.And I realized with embarrassment that when the servant opened my handbag and saw the worn nightgown and the simple toiletries, he would make a bad impression on me.Even so, I still think life is good and I enjoy it.At the time, it seemed that I had no reason to leave this life.I could still write a novel a year (although my income is barely more than a small advance from the publisher, but the book is highly rated), go to more parties, and make more friends.It's all very nice, but I can't see the future.I was only thirty years old at the time, but I had already lived a monotonous life, and I had to break through.It didn't take long to make this decision.I told my roommate that I was going to get away from it all and travel abroad.He alone could not afford the rent, but luckily a middle-aged gentleman was willing to take over the apartment to accommodate his mistress.We sold our furniture and within a month I was in Paris and rented a room in a cheap hotel on the Left Bank.

A few months ago I had the good fortune to befriend a young artist named Gerald Kelly.He has a studio on First Pastoral Avenue.He graduated from Eton College and Cambridge University, such an educational background is rare for a painter.He was extremely talented and passionately argumentative.It was he who introduced me to the famous Impressionists (whose works were recently acquired in Luxembourg).Ashamed to say, I know nothing about these.Then I found, without much trouble, a fifth-floor house near the Lion of Belfort, with two rooms and a kitchen, for seven hundred francs a year, or twenty-eight pounds at the time.I bought some second-hand furniture and some necessary household items.The concierge introduced me to a maid who would come for half a day every day to help me make a cup of milk coffee in the morning and a lunch at noon.With that, I settled down and was ready to devote myself to another novel.Not long after I arrived in Paris, Gerald Kelly took me to a restaurant called the White Cat on the rue d'Ordessa, near Gare Montparnasse, where many artists liked to dine.I've been eating there every night since.For this restaurant, I have a detailed description in the following novel, so I won't repeat it here.Generally speaking, the people who go to the White Cat Restaurant are old faces, and occasionally some newcomers come, maybe only once, maybe two or three times.We see them as interlopers and don't welcome them.That's why I first met Arnold Bennett and Clive Bell.Aleister Crawley was one of the occasional interlopers.He spends the winter in Paris.I didn't like him very much when I first met him, but I was full of interest in him.He is eloquent.I heard people say that he was handsome when he was young, but now he is fat and his hair is thinning.His eyes are beautiful, but I don't know whether it is natural or intentional. When looking at people, he is so focused that he is obviously looking at you, but he seems to be looking at your back.He's a liar, but not quite a liar.At Cambridge he won the chess championship and was called the best whist player of the session.He is full of lies, and speaks big words that do not suit him.It is strange, however, that some of those boastful deeds are true.He had climbed the second peak of the Hindu Kush with little equipment, including the oxygen tanks that help climbers succeed.Although he did not climb to the top, he also broke through the heights of his predecessors.

Crowley wrote prolific poems and verses, and had the luxury of self-publishing them.He had a gift for rhyme, and his poetry was not without merit.He was heavily influenced by Swinburne and Robert Browning, and imitated their style as much as he could without looking stupid.When you are turning the pages of Crowley you are likely to come across a verse which, if it were placed in a volume of Swinburne's poetry, you would not hesitate to attribute to the master.If you were asked who the author of "It's so hard / Isn't it / Sir / Trying to figure it out?", chances are you'd name Robert Browning.Then you are wrong, its author is actually Aleister Crowley.

When I met Crowley he was studying Satanism, magic and the occult.These were a trend in Paris at the time, and I guess it was probably influenced by Huysmans' "There".Crowley tells so many amazing stories from his own experience that it's hard to tell if he's telling the truth or just playing you for fun.I saw him several times that winter, but never saw him again when I got back to London.A long time after that, I received a telegram one day from him saying, "Please send me twenty-five pounds at once, Holy Mary, I am dying of starvation. Aleister G. Lawley".I ignored it, and he lived shamefully for many years afterwards.

Then I came back to London, which made me very happy.An old acquaintance of mine was living in Pall Mall Street, and I happened to have a room in the same building, so I was able to use his living room to write.It was published in 1908, so I guess I finished it in the first half of 1907.I have forgotten how I created Oliver Hadow based on Aleister Crowley, and I have forgotten why I wrote this novel in the first place.So when my publisher offered to reprint this book not too long ago, I thought I'd reread the novel before I nodded because fifty years later, I've completely forgotten what it's about. s story.I'm one of those writers who enjoy looking at their own past work and others who can't stand it.Whenever I checked out the final draft, I cut ties with the book.I get impatient every time a reader wants to discuss my books, glad if they are liked, but fine if they aren't.The previous works are like old clothes that I throw away to me, and I really can't arouse my interest anymore.It was with this reluctance that I opened it again.To my surprise, this book piqued my interest.I've also reread two of my earlier works for the same reason, but they both fell flat on me.One I couldn't read at all, and the other had some good drama in my head, but the humor was so bad it even made me feel ashamed.It would be a real humiliation to me to have such a work reprinted.While reading it, I couldn't help but wonder, how on earth did I get so much material about magic in the first place?It must have been checking information in the library of the British Museum day and night.The novel is rich in language, rich in rhetoric, and uses many verbs and adjectives that I don't use now, not my style at all, but perhaps not out of place for the subject.I think at that time I must have been influenced by the French style (French writers have not completely abandoned this style), and I imitated it irrationally.

Although Oliver Hadow is based on Aleister Crowley, he is nothing like Crowley.My version of Haddo is more striking, more ruthless, more sinister, and has the magic that Crowley claims to have but does not have.Crowley, however, saw himself in Hadow, and published a full-page review in Vanity Fair on behalf of Oliver Hadow.I didn't watch it then, but I should have.I'll bet it's full of invective, and quite possibly as unbearably verbose as his poetry. I don't remember what, if anything, the publication accomplished for me, and I don't care because a major change in my life took place at the time.Oso Stewart, the impresario of the Court Theatre, had opened a play which was so unsatisfactory that he wanted to change it, but the actors for the next play were not available at that time.He'd read my play and turned his nose up at it, but now he's desperate to hold my play for a few weeks to keep the theaters from closing, so that by the time it's over, his favorite actors will be free. .In this way he staged my play, and it was a great success.Soon, those managers who had been rejecting me also accepted my script.My play plays four times a day in London.I've been making a hundred pounds a year for ten years, and now I'm making hundreds a week.So I decided to give up writing fiction.Little did I know at the time that writing fiction was out of my control, and that when the urge to write hit me, there was nothing I could do but compromise.Five years later, I experienced this and stopped writing any screenplays and started writing my longest novel.I named it "Shackles of Humanity".