Having come across Jack Parsons several years ago, I have wanted to read about him in more depth for some time. So, recently I purchased both 1999's Sex and Rockets: The Occult World of Jack Parsons by John Carter and 2005's Strange Angel: The Otherworldly Life of Rocket Scientist John Whiteside Parsons by George Pendle. I then read them back-to-back, starting with Pendle's and finishing with Carter's. It's instructive to read multiple biographies of a subject, not only to compare the bios, but compare the interpretation of the subject.

Carter's Sex and Rockets: The Occult World of Jack Parsons is the lesser of the two biographies. Carter's style is chatty, his narrative is disjointed and scattershot, and his research is woefully incomplete. There are numerous instances where Carter didn't do enough research to firmly say something, so he says "perhaps" or "maybe" or "could have." And where Carter often wonders, Pendle did the research and says definitively and directly. For instance, Carter wonders if Parsons knew Robert Heinlein and visited his "Mañana Literary Society" and met certain people there; Pendle says directly that he did, and has citations to show it. There are many examples of such historical laziness. Another example, on page one, no less, Carter says Parson's parents met and wed in California. Pendle proves they met and wed in Massachusetts, then moved to California. Why Carter doesn't track down such information, I can't say. Comparing the two biographies in other ways, Carter seems to misinterpret the relationship between Parsons and Frank Malina and shortchanges the reader on the rocket work and JATO work of Parsons in the 1940s.

Carter's work does have some redeeming characteristics compared to Pendle's. There are a few interesting pictures and reproductions of magazine articles about rocketry from the time period. Carter also goes more in depth on Parson's Crowleyan magick during and after the war, giving more examples of ritual, words, and poetry related to his magickal workings.

Oh, and L. Ron Hubbard makes an appearance. Look it up.

But the work also suffers from a lack of citations. Sometimes he mentions a source in his text, but often there is no real way of knowing where and what he is citing. Carter has a "bibliography" which he confusingly calls a series of appendices. And they are formatted and grouped in an odd way. Robert Anton Wilson's introduction is loose, conspiratorial, and idiotic, like much of his work. R.A.W. seems to think American Christianity and capitalism are out to get him and prevent him from being an amoral gadfly, and somehow Parsons's thelemic "do what thou wilt" hedonism is some key to political and spiritual nirvana. It is not. It's childish, demonic hedonism.

Buy Pendle's book first and only buy this one if you are a completist or like reading loads of thelemic magickal doggerel. ( )

How Hubbard stole from Crowley. A great read about Jack Parsons' life, his exploration of the the occult through Crowley's methods, his relationship and betrayal by L Ron Hubbard and his tragic death. ( )

“Sex and Rockets: The Occult World of Jack Parson,” by John Carter, contains all of the material for what should be a great book. A seminal rocket scientist who is equal parts brilliant inventor, playboy, and dabbler in drugs, deviant sex and Aleister Crowley style “magick” leads the kind of life that seems only imaginable by a pot-boiler writer of fiction – including being flimflammed and cuckolded by none other than the founder of Scientology L. Ron Hubbard, and coming to an untimely end in garage explosion that may or may not be accidental. The introduction, by Robert Anton Wilson, really hooks the reader and there is great anticipation as you turn the very first page of text by Carter.
Alas, despite the great material, Carter is one of the worst writers I have encountered in some years. His story lacks structure or coherence, and he seems more interested in interrupting the flow -- of what is already a ponderous narrative -- with whole sections that reproduce magical incantations and declarations of “faith.” Carter seems to admire the hallucinogenic experiments of Parsons, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he wrote the whole book while tripping.
A fascinating story that fails to be told here, I can only hope that someone with better skills takes up Parson’s story one day. I am intrigued enough to want to learn more about him, but I hope never to have to read even one more paragraph by John Carter. ( )

You have to read this more for the information than for the writing. The sometimes shoddy composition detracts only a little from the story of Jack Parsons, whose life is further evidence that religion and magic and science are of a piece in the human quest for knowledge and understanding. Parsons rubbed shoulders with some of the key figures in the fields of rocketry and 20th c. esoterica, had bad luck with love and money, and challenged conventional thought and behavior enough to rank as a precursor to the seekers of the 1950s & 1960s.

Green Flash Hop Head Red
Samuel Adams Thirteenth Hour

The story of John W. Parsons could only have been true at a moment in time when the old gods were being replaced by technology, and a new world of limitless potential was shadowed by knowledge of strange and terrible destructive powers. A self-trained explosives expert and science fiction enthusiast, Parsons developed some of the crucial, early advances in solid-fuel rocketry before being drawn to the teachings of Aleister Crowley’s Ordo Templi Orientis and sex magick. He made his home into a Thelemic Lodge and boarding house for some of the free-spirited sorts passing through Los Angeles in the 1940s and 50s. In Sex and Rockets, there are cameos by John Dee and L. Ron Hubbard, Robert Goddard and Kenneth Anger. Alas, the writing here too often veers toward the amateurish; Carter’s meager talents are made plainer by comparison to a typically excellent introductory essay by Robert Anton Wilson. Still, the subject matter redeems the scribe. Reading Sex and Rockets is like looking through a peep-hole in the faux-wood paneling of mid-20th c. America, or peeking behind the curtain. Hey, is that a wizard back there? Parsons' last words, after he blew himself up in his back-yard workshop at the age of 37, could be the epitaph for all of us: “I wasn’t done.”