What shall we raise today?

Am reading Do What Thou Wilt, a biography of Aleister Crowley. Toddler keeps trying to snatch it out of my hands, which is dead adorable, though does suggest odd things about my son's infant tastes.

Poor bloody Crowley: torn alternately between urges to cuddle him and to shake some sense into him. Cuddling perhaps ill-advised, as he was a ferocious enough momma's boy as it was, without somebody else's mother getting into the mix.

Still, all that hoo-haw, with Mathers and the Golden Dawn, and the clearly imaginary Secret Chiefs, and that ghastly Madame Horos claiming to have absorbed the spirit of Madame Blavatsky--it reminds one of nothing so much as internet squabbles, full of sockpuppets and fury, signifying a lot of people with too much time on their hands.