The Book Of Lies, by Aleister Crowley, turns 100 (or is it 101?) this year.
By far, my favorite piece of esoterica in existence. The first Crowley book I ever bought, whose title came to me in a dream, whose spine leaped out at me from between hundreds others, whose words have accompanied my deepest and most profound experiences, whose poems I return to time and time again, etched in my mind, whose pages are worn, whose cover is nearly disintegrated, this book has kept me sane through sheer insanity.
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