The Doors of Perception is an autobiographical book written by Aldous Huxley. Published in 1954, it elaborates on his psychedelic experience under the influence of mescaline in May 1953. Huxley recalls the insights he experienced, ranging from the "purely aesthetic" to "sacramental vision",^[1] and reflects on their philosophical and psychological implications. In 1956, he published Heaven and Hell, another essay which elaborates these reflections further. The two works have since often been published together as one book; the title of both comes from William Blake's 1793 book The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.^[2]

The Doors of Perception provoked strong reactions for its evaluation of psychedelic drugs as facilitators of mystical insight with great potential benefits for science, art, and religion. While many found the argument compelling, others including German writer Thomas Mann, Vedantic monk Swami Prabhavananda, Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, and Orientalist scholar Robert Charles Zaehner countered that the effects of mescaline are subjective and should not be conflated with objective religious mysticism. Huxley himself continued to take psychedelics for the rest of his life, and the understanding he gained from them influenced his final novel Island, published in 1962.

Background[edit]

Mescaline (peyote and San Pedro cactus)[edit]

Mescaline is the principal active psychedelic agent of the peyote and San Pedro cacti, which have been used in Native American religious ceremonies for thousands of years.^[3] A German pharmacologist, Arthur Heffter, isolated the alkaloids in the peyote cactus in 1897. These included mescaline, which he showed through a combination of animal and self-experiments was the compound responsible for the psychoactive properties of the plant. In 1919, Ernst Späth, another German chemist, synthesised the drug.^[4] Although personal accounts of taking the cactus had been written by psychologists such as Weir Mitchell in the US and Havelock Ellis in the UK during the 1890s, the German-American Heinrich Kluver was the first to systematically study its psychological effects in a small book called Mescal and Mechanisms of Hallucinations published in 1928. The book stated that the drug could be used to research the unconscious mind.

A peyote cactus, from which mescaline is derived.

In the 1930s, an American anthropologist Weston La Barre, published The Peyote Cult, the first study of the ritual use of peyote as an entheogen drug amongst the Huichol people of western Mexico. La Barre noted that the Native American users of the cactus took it to obtain visions for prophecy, healing and inner strength.^[5] Most psychiatric research projects into the drug in the 1930s and early 1940s tended to look at the role of the drug in mimicking psychosis.^[6] In 1947 however, the US Navy undertook Project Chatter, which examined the potential for the drug as a truth revealing agent. In the early 1950s, when Huxley wrote his book, mescaline was still regarded as a research chemical rather than a drug and was listed in the Parke-Davis catalogue with no controls.^[7] Mescaline also played a paramount part in influencing the beat generation of poets and writers of the later 1940s to the early 1960s. Most notable, William S. Burroughs,^[8] Jack Kerouac,^[9] and Allen Ginsberg^[10]—all of whom were respected contemporary beat artists^[11] of their generation. Theirs and many other contemporary artists' works were heavily influenced by over-the-counter forms of mescaline during this time, due to its potency and attainability.

Huxley had been interested in spiritual matters and had used alternative therapies for some time. In 1936 he told TS Eliot that he was starting to meditate,^[12] and he used other therapies too; the Alexander Technique and the Bates Method of seeing had particular importance in guiding him through personal crises.^[13] In the late 1930s he had become interested in the spiritual teaching of Vedanta and in 1945 he published The Perennial Philosophy, which set out a philosophy that he believed was found amongst mystics of all religions. He had known for some time of visionary experience achieved by taking drugs in certain religions.

Research by Humphry Osmond[edit]

Huxley had first heard of peyote use in ceremonies of the Native American Church in New Mexico, soon after coming to the United States in 1937.^[14] He first became aware of the cactus's active ingredient, mescaline, after reading an academic paper written by Humphry Osmond, a British psychiatrist working at Weyburn Mental Hospital, Saskatchewan, in early 1952. Osmond's paper set out results from his research into schizophrenia, using mescaline that he had been undertaking with colleagues, doctors Abram Hoffer and John Smythies.^[15]^[16] In the epilogue to his novel The Devils of Loudun, published earlier that year, Huxley had written that drugs were "toxic short cuts to self-transcendence".^[17] For the Canadian writer George Woodcock, Huxley had changed his opinion because mescaline was not addictive and appeared to be without unpleasant physical or mental side-effects. Further, he had found that hypnosis, autohypnosis and meditation had apparently failed to produce the results he wanted.^[18]

Huxley's experience with mescaline[edit]

After reading Osmond's paper, Huxley sent him a letter on Thursday, 10 April 1952, expressing interest in the research and putting himself forward as an experimental subject. His letter explained his motivations as being rooted in an idea that the brain is a reducing valve that restricts consciousness, and hoping mescaline might help access a greater degree of awareness (an idea he later included in the book).^[19] Reflecting on his stated motivations, Woodcock wrote that Huxley had realised that the ways to enlightenment were many, including prayer and meditation. He hoped drugs might also break down the barriers of the ego, and both draw him closer to spiritual enlightenment and satisfy his quest as a seeker of knowledge.^[20]

In a second letter on Saturday, 19 April, Huxley invited Osmond to stay while he was visiting Los Angeles to attend the American Psychiatric Association convention.^[21] He also wrote that he looked forward to the mescaline experience and reassured Osmond that his doctor did not object to his taking it.^[19] Huxley had invited his friend, the writer Gerald Heard, to participate in the experiment; although Heard was too busy this time, he did join him for a session in November of that year.^[22]

Day of the experiment[edit]

Osmond arrived at Huxley's house in West Hollywood on Sunday, 3 May 1953, and recorded his impressions of the famous author as a tolerant and kind man, although he had expected otherwise. The psychiatrist had misgivings about giving the drug to Huxley, and wrote, "I did not relish the possibility, however remote, of being the man who drove Aldous Huxley mad," but instead found him an ideal subject. Huxley was "shrewd, matter-of-fact and to the point" and his wife Maria "eminently sensible".^[23] Overall, they all liked each other, which was very important when administering the drug. The mescaline was slow to take effect, but Osmond saw that after two and a half hours the drug was working and after three hours Huxley was responding well.^[24] The experience lasted eight hours and both Osmond and Maria remained with him throughout.^[25]

The experience started in Huxley's study before the party made a seven block trip to The Owl Drug (Rexall) store, known as World's Biggest Drugstore, at the corner of Beverly and La Cienega Boulevards. Huxley was particularly fond of the shop and the large variety of products available there (in stark contrast to the much smaller selection in English chemist's shops). There he considered a variety of paintings in art books. For one of his friends, Huxley's poor eyesight manifested in both a great desire to see and a strong interest in painting, which influenced the strong visual and artistic nature of his experience.^[26]

After returning home to listen to music, eat, and walk in the garden, a friend drove the threesome to the hills overlooking the city. Photographs show Huxley standing, alternately arms on hips and outstretched with a grin on his face. Finally, they returned home and to ordinary consciousness.^[27] One of Huxley's friends who met him on the day said that despite writing about wearing flannel trousers, he was actually wearing blue jeans. Huxley admitted to having changed the fabric as Maria thought he should be better dressed for his readers.^[28] Osmond later said he had a photo of the day that showed Huxley wearing flannels.^[29]

Compilation of the book[edit]

One of the copies of William Blake's unique hand painted editions, created for the original printing of the poem. The line from which Huxley draws the title is in the second to last stanza. This image represents Copy H, Plate 14 of The Marriage of Heaven and Hell which is currently held at The Fitzwilliam Museum.^[30]

After Osmond's departure, Huxley and Maria left to go on a three-week, 5,000-mile (8,000-kilometre) car trip around the national parks of the North West of the US. After returning to Los Angeles, he took a month to write the book.^[31] The Doors of Perception was the first book Huxley dedicated to his wife Maria.^[32] Harold Raymond, at his publisher Chatto and Windus, said of the manuscript, "You are the most articulate guinea pig that any scientist could hope to engage."^[29] The title was taken from William Blake's poem The Marriage of Heaven and Hell:

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is: Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.^[33]

Huxley had used Blake's metaphor in The Doors of Perception while discussing the paintings of Vermeer and the Nain brothers, and previously in The Perennial Philosophy, once in relation to the use of mortification as a means to remove persistent spiritual myopia and secondly to refer to the absence of separation in spiritual vision.^[34] Blake had a resounding impact on Huxley, he shared many of Blake's earlier revelations and interests in art and literature.^[35] In the early 1950s, Huxley had suffered a debilitating attack of the eye condition iritis. This increased his concern for his already poor eyesight and much of his work in the early part of the decade had featured metaphors of vision and sight.^[36]

Synopsis[edit]

After a brief overview of research into mescaline, Huxley recounts that he was given 4/10 of a gram at 11:00 am one day in May 1953. Huxley writes that he hoped to gain insight into extraordinary states of mind and expected to see brightly coloured visionary landscapes. When he only sees lights and shapes, he puts this down to being a bad visualiser; however, he experiences a great change in his perception of the external world.^[37]

By 12:30 pm, a vase of flowers becomes the "miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence". The experience, he asserts, is neither agreeable nor disagreeable, but simply "is". He likens it to Meister Eckhart's "istigkeit" or "is-ness", and Plato's "Being" but not separated from "Becoming". He feels he understands the Hindu concept of Satchitananda, as well as the Zen koan that, "the dharma body of the Buddha is in the hedge" and Buddhist suchness. In this state, Huxley explains he didn't have an "I", but instead a "not-I". Meaning and existence, pattern and colour become more significant than spatial relationships and time. Duration is replaced by a perpetual present.^[38]

Reflecting on the experience afterwards, Huxley finds himself in agreement with philosopher C. D. Broad that to enable us to live, the brain and nervous system eliminate unessential information from the totality of the 'Mind at Large'.^[39]

The Milkmaid by Johannes Vermeer. "That mysterious artist was truly gifted with the vision that perceives the Dharma-Body as the hedge at the bottom of the garden", reflected Huxley.

In summary, Huxley writes that the ability to think straight is not reduced while under the influence of mescaline, visual impressions are intensified, and the human experimenter will see no reason for action because the experience is so fascinating.^[40]

Temporarily leaving the chronological flow, he mentions that four or five hours into the experience he was taken to the World's Biggest Drug Store (WBDS), where he was presented with books on art. In one book, the dress in Botticelli's Judith provokes a reflection on drapery as a major artistic theme as it allows painters to include the abstract in representational art, to create mood, and also to represent the mystery of pure being.^[41] Huxley feels that human affairs are somewhat irrelevant whilst on mescaline and attempts to shed light on this by reflecting on paintings featuring people.^[42] Cézanne's Self-portrait with a straw hat seems incredibly pretentious, while Vermeer's human still lifes (also, the Le Nain brothers and Vuillard) are the nearest to reflecting this not-self state.^[43]

For Huxley, the reconciliation of these cleansed perceptions with humanity reflects the age old debate between active and contemplative life, known as the way of Martha and the way of Mary. As Huxley believes that contemplation should also include action and charity, he concludes that the experience represents contemplation at its height, but not its fullness. Correct behaviour and alertness are needed. Nonetheless, Huxley maintains that even quietistic contemplation has an ethical value, because it is concerned with negative virtues and acts to channel the transcendent into the world.^[44]

The Red Hot Poker flowers in Huxley's garden were "so passionately alive that they seemed to be standing on the very brink of utterance".

After listening to Mozart's C-Minor Piano Concerto, Gesualdo's madrigals and Alban Berg's Lyric Suite,^[45] Huxley heads into the garden. Outside, the garden chairs take on such an immense intensity that he fears being overwhelmed; this gives him an insight into madness. He reflects that spiritual literature, including the works of Jakob Böhme, William Law and the Tibetan Book of the Dead, talks of these pains and terrors. Huxley speculates that schizophrenia is the inability to escape from this reality into the world of common sense and thus help would be essential.^[46]

After lunch and the drive to the WBDS he returns home and to his ordinary state of mind. His final insight is taken from Buddhist scripture: that within sameness there is difference, although that difference is not different from sameness.^[47]

The book finishes with Huxley's final reflections on the meaning of his experience. Firstly, the urge to transcend one's self is universal through times and cultures (and was characterised by H. G. Wells as The Door in the Wall).^[48] He reasons that better, healthier "doors" are needed than alcohol and tobacco. Mescaline has the advantage of not provoking violence in takers, but its effects last an inconveniently long time and some users can have negative reactions. Ideally, self-transcendence would be found in religion, but Huxley feels that it is unlikely that this will ever happen. Christianity and mescaline seem well-suited for each other; the Native American Church for instance uses the drug as a sacrament, where its use combines religious feeling with decorum.^[49]

Huxley concludes that mescaline is not enlightenment or the Beatific vision, but a "gratuitous grace" (a term taken from Thomas Aquinas' Summa Theologica).^[50] It is not necessary but helpful, especially so for the intellectual, who can become the victim of words and symbols. Although systematic reasoning is important, direct perception has intrinsic value too. Finally, Huxley maintains that the person who has this experience will be transformed for the better.

Reception[edit]

The book met with a variety of responses, both positive and negative,^[21] from writers in the fields of literature, psychiatry, philosophy and religion. These included a symposium published in The Saturday Review magazine with the unlikely title of, Mescalin – An Answer to Cigarettes, including contributions from Huxley; J.S. Slotkin, a professor of Anthropology; and a physician, Dr. W.C. Cutting.^[51]

Literature[edit]

For the Scottish poet, Edwin Muir "Mr. Huxley's experiment is extraordinary, and is beautifully described".^[52] Thomas Mann, the author and friend of Huxley, believed the book demonstrated Huxley's escapism. He thought that while escapism found in mysticism might be honourable, drugs were not. Huxley's 'aesthetic self-indulgence' and indifference to humanity would lead to suffering or stupidity; Mann concluded the book was irresponsible, if not quite immoral, to encourage young people to try the drug.^[53]

For Huxley's biographer and friend, the author Sybille Bedford, the book combined sincerity with simplicity, passion with detachment.^[54] "It reflects the heart and mind open to meet the given, ready, even longing, to accept the wonderful. The Doors is a quiet book. It is also one that postulates a goodwill – the choice once more of the nobler hypothesis. It turned out, for certain temperaments, a seductive book".^[55] For biographer David King Dunaway, The Doors of Perception, along with The Art of Seeing, can be seen as the closest Huxley ever came to autobiographical writing.^[56]

Psychiatry[edit]

William Sargant, the controversial British psychiatrist, reviewed the book for The British Medical Journal and particularly focused on Huxley's reflections on schizophrenia. He wrote that the book brought to life the mental suffering of schizophrenics, which should make psychiatrists uneasy about their failure to relieve this. Also, he hoped that the book would encourage the investigation of the physiological, rather than psychological, aspects of psychiatry.^[57] Other medical researchers questioned the validity of Huxley's account. According to Roland Fisher, the book contained "99 percent Aldous Huxley and only one half gram mescaline".^[58] Joost A.M. Meerloo found Huxley's reactions "not necessarily the same as... other people's experiences."^[59]

For Steven J. Novak, The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell redefined taking mescaline as a mystical experience with possible psychotherapeutic benefits, where physicians had previously thought of the drug in terms of mimicking a psychotic episode, known as psychotomimetic.^[60] The popularity of the book also affected research into these drugs, because researchers needed a random sample of subjects with no preconceptions about the drug to conduct experiments, and these became very difficult to find.^[61]

Philosophy and religion[edit]

Huxley's friend and spiritual mentor, the Vedantic monk Swami Prabhavananda, thought that mescaline was an illegitimate path to enlightenment, a "deadly heresy" as Christopher Isherwood put it.^[29] Other thinkers^[who?] expressed similar apprehensions.

Martin Buber[edit]

Martin Buber, the Jewish religious philosopher, attacked Huxley's notion that mescaline allowed a person to participate in "common being", and held that the drug ushered users "merely into a strictly private sphere". Buber believed the drug experiences to be holidays "from the person participating in the community of logos and cosmos—holidays from the very uncomfortable reminder to verify oneself as such a person." For Buber man must master, withstand and alter his situation, or even leave it, "but the fugitive flight out of the claim of the situation into situationlessness is no legitimate affair of man."^[62]

Robert Charles Zaehner[edit]

Robert Charles Zaehner, a professor at Oxford University, formed one of the fullest and earliest critiques of The Doors of Perception from a religious and philosophical perspective. In 1954, Zaehner published an article called The Menace of Mescaline, in which he asserted that "artificial interference with consciousness" could have nothing to do with the Christian "Beatific Vision".^[63] Zaehner expanded on these criticisms in his book Mysticism Sacred and Profane (1957), which also acts as a theistic riposte to what he sees as the monism of Huxley's The Perennial Philosophy. Although he acknowledged the importance of The Doors of Perception as a challenge to people interested in religious experience,^[64] he pointed out what he saw as inconsistencies and self-contradictions.^[65] Zaehner concludes that Huxley's apprehensions under mescaline are affected by his deep familiarity with Vedanta and Mahayana Buddhism. So the experience may not be the same for others who take the drug and do not have this background, although they will undoubtedly experience a transformation of sensation.^[66] Zaehner himself was a convert to Catholicism.

That the longing to transcend oneself is "one of the principal appetites of the soul"^[67] is questioned by Zaehner. There are still people who do not feel this desire to escape themselves,^[68] and religion itself need not mean escaping from the ego.^[69] Zaehner criticises what he sees as Huxley's apparent call for all religious people to use drugs (including alcohol) as part of their practices.^[70] Quoting St Paul's proscriptions against drunkenness in church, in 1 Corinthians xi, Zaehner makes the point that artificial ecstatic states and spiritual union with God are not the same.^[65]

Holding that there are similarities between the experience on mescaline, the mania in a manic-depressive psychosis and the visions of God of a mystical saint suggests, for Zaehner, that the saint's visions must be the same as those of a lunatic.^[71] The personality is dissipated into the world, for Huxley on mescaline and people in a manic state, which is similar to the experience of nature mystics.^[72] However, this experience is different from the theistic mystic who is absorbed into a God, who is quite different from the objective world. The appendices to Mysticism Sacred and Profane include three accounts of mescaline experiences, including those of Zaehner himself. He writes that he was transported into a world of farcical meaninglessness and that the experience was interesting and funny, but not religious.

Soon after the publication of his book, Huxley wrote to Harold Raymond at Chatto and Windus that he thought it strange that when Hilaire Belloc and G. K. Chesterton wrote the praises of alcohol they were still considered good Christians, while anyone who suggested other routes to self-transcendence was accused of being a drug addict and perverter of mankind.^[73] Later Huxley responded to Zaehner in an article published in 1961: "For most of those to whom the experiences have been vouchsafed, their value is self-evident. By Dr. Zaehner, the author of Mysticism, Sacred and Profane, their deliberate induction is regarded as immoral. To which his colleague, Professor Price, retorts in effect, 'Speak for yourself!'".^[74]

Huston Smith[edit]

Professor of religion and philosophy Huston Smith argued that Mysticism Sacred and Profane had not fully examined and refuted Huxley's claims made in The Doors of Perception.^[75] Smith claims that consciousness-changing substances have been linked with religion both throughout history and across the world, and further it is possible that many religious perspectives had their origins in them, which were later forgotten. Acknowledging that personality, preparation and environment all play a role in the effects of the drugs, Huston Smith draws attention to evidence that suggests that a religious outcome of the experience may not be restricted to one of Huxley's temperament. Further, because Zaehner's experience was not religious, does not prove that none will be. Contrary to Zaehner, Huston Smith draws attention to evidence suggesting that these drugs can facilitate theistic mystical experience.^[75]

As the descriptions of naturally occurring and drug-stimulated mystical experiences cannot be distinguished phenomenologically, Huston Smith regards Zaehner's position in Mysticism Sacred and Profane, as a product of the conflict between science and religion – that religion tends to ignore the findings of science. Nonetheless, although these drugs may produce a religious experience, they need not produce a religious life, unless set within a context of faith and discipline. Finally, he concludes that psychedelic drugs should not be forgotten in relation to religion because the phenomenon of religious awe, or the encounter with the holy, is declining and religion cannot survive long in its absence.^[75]

Later experience[edit]

Huxley later wrote that the "things which had entirely filled my attention on that first occasion [chronicled in The Doors of Perception], I now perceived to be temptations – temptations to escape from the central reality into false, or at least imperfect and partial Nirvanas of beauty and mere knowledge."

Huxley continued to take these substances several times a year until his death,^[76] but with a serious and temperate frame of mind.^[77] He refused to talk about the substances outside scientific meetings,^[78] turned down an invitation to talk about them on TV^[79] and refused the leadership of a foundation devoted to the study of psychedelics, explaining that they were only one of his diverse number of interests.^[80] For Philip Thody, a professor of French literature, Huxley's revelations made him conscious of the objections that had been put forward to his theory of mysticism set out in Eyeless in Gaza and Grey Eminence, and consequently Island reveals a more humane philosophy.^[81] However, this change in perspective may lie elsewhere. In October 1955, Huxley had an experience while on mescaline that he considered more profound than those detailed in The Doors of Perception. He decided his previous experiments, the ones detailed in Doors and Heaven and Hell, had been "temptations to escape from the central reality into false, or at least imperfect and partial Nirvanas of beauty and mere knowledge."^[82] He wrote in a letter to Humphry Osmond, that he experienced "the direct, total awareness, from the inside, so to say, of Love as the primary and fundamental cosmic fact. ... I was this fact; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that this fact occupied the place where I had been."^[83] The experience made its way into the final chapter of Island.^[84] This raised a troublesome point. Was it better to pursue a course of careful psychological experimentation.... or was the real value of these drugs to "stimulate the most basic kind of religious ecstasy"?^[82]

Influence[edit]

A variety of influences have been claimed for the book. The psychedelic proselytiser Timothy Leary was given the book by a colleague soon after returning from Mexico where he had first taken psilocybin mushrooms in the summer of 1960. He found that The Doors of Perception corroborated what he had experienced 'and more too'.^[85] Leary soon set up a meeting with Huxley and the two became friendly. The book can also be seen as a part of the history of entheogenic model of understanding these drugs, that sees them within a spiritual context.^[86]^[87]^[88]

William Blake[edit]

William Blake (1757–1827), who inspired the book's title and writing style, was an influential English artist most notable for his paintings and poetry. The "doors of perception" was originally a metaphor written by Blake in his 1790 book, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. The metaphor was used to represent Blake's feelings about mankind's limited perception of the reality around them:

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.^[89]

Cultural references[edit]

This book was the influence behind Jim Morrison naming his band The Doors in 1965.^[90]
In his 2014 Scientific American article, skeptic Michael Shermer closed his story about an "anomalous and mystifying event[s] that suggest the existence of the paranormal or supernatural" with the statement advising that "we should not shut the doors of perception when they may be opened to us to marvel in the mysterious." The event was that his wife's grandfather's transistor radio, which had been broken, started playing without being touched just before their wedding ceremony.^[91]^[92]
In the 2016 film Doctor Strange, Stan Lee's character is seen reading the book, calling it, "hilarious."^[93]

Publication history[edit]

The Doors of Perception is usually published in a combined volume with Huxley's essay Heaven and Hell (1956)

The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell, 1954, 1956, Harper & Brothers
1977 Harpercollins (UK), mass market paperback: ISBN 0-586-04437-X
1990 Harper Perennial edition: ISBN 0-06-090007-5
2004 Harper Modern Classics edition: ISBN 0-06-059518-3
2004 Sagebrush library binding: ISBN 1-4176-2859-6
2009 First Harper Perennial Modern Classics edition: ISBN 978-0-06-172907-2
The Doors of Perception, unabridged audio cassette, Audio Partners 1998, ISBN 1-57270-065-3

References[edit]

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^ "If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.” William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
^ Lower Pecos and Coahuila peyote: new radiocarbon dates. Terry M, Steelman KL, Guilderson T, Dering P, Rowe MW. J Archaeological Science. 2006;33:1017–1021.
^ About Dr. Arthur Heffter Archived 18 September 2010 at the Wayback Machine Hefter Research Institute Site
^ Powell, Simon G Mescaline, An Overview Archived 5 December 2010 at the Wayback Machine
^ Grob, Charles S. Psychiatric Research with Hallucinogens: What have we learned? | The Psychotomimetic Model Yearbook for Ethnomedicine and the Study of Consciousness, Issue 3, 1994
^ Jay, Mike (2010) High Society: The Central Role of Mind-Altering Drugs in History, Science, and Culture p. 103 Park Street Press, ISBN 1-59477-393-9
^ "American National Biography Online: Burroughs, William S." www.anb.org. Retrieved 25 October 2016.
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^ Letter to T.S. Eliot, 8 July 1936; Smith, Letters of Aldous Huxley, pp. 405–6
^ Dunaway, David King, p. 133
^ Woodcock, George (1972) Dawn and the Darkest Hour: A study of Aldous Huxley, p. 274, Faber & Faber, ISBN 0-571-08939-9
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^ Bedford, Sybille (1974) Aldous Huxley: A Biography, Volume Two: 1939–1963 p. 144, Chatto & Windus, ISBN 0-00-216006-4
^ Huxley, Aldous (1952), The Devils of Loudun, Chatto & Windus
^ Woodcock (1972) p. 275
^ Jump up to:^a ^b Bedford (1974) p. 144
^ Woodcock (1972) p. 274
^ Jump up to:^a ^b Bedford (1974) p. 142
^ Murray, Nicholas (2003) Aldous Huxley, p. 399, Abacus ISBN 0-349-11348-3
^ Bedford(1974) p. 145
^ Murray (2003) p. 399
^ Bedford (1974) p. 145
^ Peggy Kiskadden in Dunaway, David King (1998) Aldous Huxley recollected: an oral history, p. 97 Rowman Altamira ISBN 0-7619-9065-8
^ Dunaway, David King (1989), pp. 228–300
^ Bedford (1974) p. 163
^ Jump up to:^a ^b ^c Murray (2003) p. 401
^ Morris Eaves; Robert N. Essick; Joseph Viscomi (eds.). "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, object 14 (Bentley 14, Erdman 14, Keynes 14)". William Blake Archive. Retrieved 10 June 2014.
^ Bedford (1974) p. 146
^ Murray (2003) p. 400
^ Blake, William (1790) The Marriage of Heaven and Hell Plate 14
^ Huxley, Aldous (1990) The Perennial Philosophy, pp. 107, 189, Perennial, ISBN 0-06-090191-8
^ m. Williams, Nicholas (1 April 2009). "'The Sciences of Life': Living Form in William Blake and Aldous Huxley". Romanticism. 15 (1): 41–53. doi:10.3366/E1354991X09000506. ISSN 1354-991X.
^ Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 283
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^ Huxley (1954) p. 63
^ LaBarre, Weston "Twenty Years of Peyote Studies", Current Anthropology, Vol. 1, No. 1, (Jan. 1960) pp. 45–60
^ Huxley, Aldous (1954) Dust Jacket
^ Watt, Conrad (1997) Aldous Huxley, pp. 394–395 Routledge ISBN 0-415-15915-6
^ Bedford (1974) p. 155
^ Bedford, Sybille (1974) p. 156
^ Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 297
^ Sargant, William "Chemical Mysticism", British Medical Journal, Vol. 1, No. 4869 (1 May 1954), p. 1024
^ Roland Fisher, quoted in Louis Cholden, ed. Lysergic Acid Diethylamide and Mescaline in Experimental Psychiatry, p. 67, Grune and Stratton, 1956
^ Meerloo, Joost A.M. Medication into Submission: The Danger of Therapeutic Coercion, Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases, 1955, 122: 353–360
^ Novak, Steven J. LSD before Leary: Sidney Cohen's Critique of 1950s Psychedelic Drug Research, Isis, Vol. 88, No. 1 (Mar. 1997), pp. 87–110
^ Novak, Steven J. (1997)
^ Buber, Martin (1965) The Knowledge of Man: Selected Essays ed Maurice S. Friedman, Harper & Row
^ Richards, William A. "Entheogens in the Study of Religious Experiences: Current Status", Journal of Religion and Health, Vol. 44, No. 4 (Winter, 2005), pp. 377–389
^ Zaehner, RC (1957) Mysticism Sacred and Profane, Clarendon Press, p. 3
^ Jump up to:^a ^b Zaehner p. 25
^ Zaehner p. 3
^ Huxley, Aldous (1955), The Doors of Perception, p. 49
^ Zaehner p. 18
^ Zaehner, p. 26
^ Zaehner p. 19
^ Zaehner, Introduction p.xi
^ Zaehner p. 28
^ Murray (2003) p. 403
^ Huxley, Aldous, Eds. Horowitz, Michael and Palmer, Cynthia Moksha: Aldous Huxley's Classic Writings on Psychedelics and the Visionary Experience, p. 214. Park Street Press, ISBN 0-89281-758-5
^ Jump up to:^a ^b ^c Huston Smith (1964) Do Drugs Have Religious Import? The Journal of Philosophy, 61, 18
^ Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 300
^ Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 327
^ Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 298
^ Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 330
^ Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 369
^ Thody, Philip (1973) Aldous Huxley Leaders of Modern Thought, Studio Vista, ISBN 0-289-70189-9
^ Jump up to:^a ^b Stevens, Jay (1998) Storming Heaven: LSD and the American Dream, pp. 56–57, Grove Press, ISBN 0-8021-3587-0
^ Letter to Humphry Osmond, 24 October 1955. in Achera Huxley, Laura (1969) This Timeless Moment. p. 139, Chatto & Windus
^ Achera Huxley, p. 146
^ Leary, Timothy (1968) High Priest, New World Publishing
^ Richard, William A. "Entheogens in the Study of Religious Experiences: Current Status", Journal of Religion and Health, Vol. 44, No. 4 (Winter, 2005), pp. 377–389
^ Pollan, Michael (24 December 2018). "How Does a Writer Put a Drug Trip into Words?". The New York Times. ISSN 0362-4331. Retrieved 4 April 2019.
^ "Is psychedelics research closer to theology than to science? – Jules Evans | Aeon Essays". Aeon. Retrieved 4 April 2019.
^ Blake, William (1790). The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
^ Simmonds, Jeremy (2008). The Encyclopedia of Dead Rock Stars: Heroin, Handguns, and Ham Sandwiches. Chicago: Chicago Review Press. p. 45. ISBN 978-1-55652-754-8.
^ Shermer, Michael (1 October 2014). "Anomalous Events That Can Shake One's Skepticism to the Core". Scientific American. 311 (4): 97. doi:10.1038/scientificamerican1014-97. PMID 25314882. Retrieved 13 May 2018.
^ Michael Shermer: The Radio (To The Best of Our Knowledge podcast, aired 28 Oct 2017, published to YouTube on 31 Oct 2017)
^ "11 Doctor Strange Easter eggs you might have missed". Digital Spy. 29 October 2016. Retrieved 8 November 2016.

External links[edit]

The Doors of Perception at Faded Page (Canada)

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From the United States

Paige Ellen

Published in 1954, this remains a classic in the literature of psychedelia and spirituality

Reviewed in the United States on April 28, 2016

Verified Purchase

I first read this book when I was 13. I am now 66. Did it influence my life? Looking back, perhaps even more so than I had realized. It was 1963 when I read it. I had been reading dystopias and had just finished "Brave New World." There was so much talk about LSD, mescaline, peyote and other hallucinogens as being "mind-expanding" and all that stuff that is now history. One interesting point of history regarding Aldous Huxley's life. He died the day JFK was shot. He was taking LSD at the time because he wanted to experience death as fully as he could.
The title was taken from William Blake who had said, "If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite." That quote and this book would later help Jim Morrison in naming his band, "The Doors."
I read it with rapt attention. I was entranced. When I reread it recently, I was amazed at how much I remembered and how much of my life choices it had influenced.
I do remember that I promised myself at that young age, that when I was older, I would try these drugs as the search for "God" and spirituality was very important to me then and is still now.
In particular, I recall the passage where, staring at a simple chair, Huxley waxed eloquently about what the chair revealed about its maker. Most of all, I recall his referring to perceiving the "isness" of the chair.
This book was originally published in 1954. It was an important book then and it remains so now. It is a "must-have" for the library of any seeker of the truth, any who seek "higher learning", (pun intended and not), any who are investigators of world spirituality. Very highly recommended.

410 people found this helpful

Anna Cotrone

My favorite read

Reviewed in the United States on March 7, 2020

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this book was perfect for me and will be perfect for anyone who has a third eye or has done hallucinogens and seen the other side of the senses... it really dives into the idea that there is more within the world then what you experience on a daily basis and completely understood and proved my theories based around changing your perception and finding more in the world that has been hidden right in front of you... and he does so using such beautiful language

17 people found this helpful

Billy Billet

Beware of the "Important Books" edition!

Reviewed in the United States on March 3, 2018

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This is a great book, but be sure to avoid the "Important Books" edition (the one with the black cover and red/green/white lettering). It is a bootleg printing of terrible quaity. The cover image is a low-resolution jpeg that's been stretched to more than twice its original size, the text inside was obviously edited in MS word without any care. Do not buy this edition, you will be better off reading from a computer screen.

172 people found this helpful

Josh

Classic, Good Read, Ahead of its Time.

Reviewed in the United States on June 11, 2018

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This book didn’t blow my mind (mainly because anyone who’s versed in psychedelics has likely read more recent material than this 1952 book, as much progress has been made on the ideas Huxley discusses) however it presents some very interesting and valid thoughts and observances, especially for its time. It’s safe to say that several of his descriptions and assumptions were well ahead of their time and resonate with me by remaining relevant even in the present day.

The one thing I didn’t like about the book is that I felt it went off subject and drifted too much with irrelevant subject matter - however - considering when it was written, this may have been necessary to paint an accurate picture and to articulate a comparison of “normal” reality for those unacquainted with LSD, psilocybin or Mescaline.

I would recommend this read to anyone who likes Huxley and has an interest in the classic early writings on psychedelics.

41 people found this helpful

Reader4life

Bizarre adventure

Reviewed in the United States on February 3, 2022

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This was a bizarre story of a possible future.

One person found this helpful

Adam C. Dave

A real eye-opener.

Reviewed in the United States on November 5, 2014

Verified Purchase

The first half of this book is particularly mystifying, in a good way. To hear the author discuss the mind-expanding effects of mescaline makes one wish he had a dose in the here and now. Heaven and Hell reads more like a critique of art through the ages, but the subsequent essay is good, and overall this is a very enjoyable book that can be digested in a day - if like me you're in bed with a broken hip. If not, read it in 2 or 3. You won't be disappointed!

6 people found this helpful

John Luscomb

Groovy

Reviewed in the United States on February 4, 2021

Verified Purchase

One of the better books on the psychedelic experience

One person found this helpful

Calvin

Insightful, existential

Reviewed in the United States on March 24, 2017

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Great book! Aldous Huxley has some really great observations about his experience with mescaline, and interprets them in a very contemporary existentialist manner.

7 people found this helpful

Michael Hatmaker

wow

Reviewed in the United States on August 20, 2013

Verified Purchase

I had no idea that this book would be transformative. If you think this is just a book about a drug-induced delirium (as I did), you will be shocked at just how deep this book goes into our psychology as human beings and our biological perception of the world around us. Highly recommended.

8 people found this helpful

John

A shaky finger pointed toward Oneness

Reviewed in the United States on October 19, 2021

Verified Purchase

An English intellectual seeks self-transcendence by taking mescaline, his stunning account shakes hippies everywhere out of “the rut of ordinary perception,” helps kick off the counterculture movement, and inspired the name of the 1960’s rock and roll band The Doors. It is full of spiritual insights rich with the influence of Vedanta and Buddhism like these:

”...Reality shines out of every appearance…”
”...see the All in every this…”
”...a perpetual present made up of one continually changing apocalypse.”
”...the blessed Not-I, released for a moment from my throttling embrace.”

Oh, and Huxley’s other book with references to hallucinogens, Heaven and Hell, is usually bound together with the 79-page book to give it a respectable thickness. I wouldn’t bother reading Heaven & Hell, though, unless you’re a huge art history buff. For a man who had to read with a magnifying glass his whole adult life (due to childhood keratitis), he sure loves art.

Among the dualism-piercing totalities explored through Huxley’s psychedelic adventure, we also encounter outdated cultural references, lots of art history, and detailed comparisons to Christian theology. I’m glad I finally read this one, but I wouldn’t jump up and down to get you to read it too.

7 people found this helpful

===

The Doors of Perception

by Aldous Huxley

3.92 · Rating details · 16,130 ratings · 1,060 reviews

The Doors of Perception is a philosophical essay, released as a book, by Aldous Huxley. First published in 1954, it details his experiences when taking mescaline.

The book takes the form of Huxley's recollection of a mescaline trip that took place over the course of an afternoon in May 1953. The book takes its title from a phrase in William Blake's 1793 poem 'The Marriage of Heaven and Hell'.

Huxley recalls the insights he experienced, which range from the "purely aesthetic" to "sacramental vision". He also incorporates later reflections on the experience and its meaning for art and religion. (less)

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Popular Answered Questions

one of the most important books I have ever read

13 Likes · Like 7 Years Ago Add Your Answer

Ed here here. a seminal read

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Is there other books that are similar to this, I mean Ive been looking for a book as creative and realistic as this but couldn't find any. Whats great about this book, its not a huge book in terms of pages but the content is huge (not letter count)?

5 Likes · Like 6 Years Ago See All 4 Answers

Carl Macki Anything by Rumi, Cosmic Consciousness by Richard Maurice Bucke, True Hallucinations by Terence McKenna, The politics of Experience by R.D. Laing, and…more

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B0nnie

Oct 17, 2012B0nnie rated it it was amazing

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November 22, 1963. That fateful day. Yes, the day Huxley died. His last words were “LSD, 100 micrograms I.M.” He took psychedelic drugs less than a dozen times in his life, but he always did so with a deep spiritual purpose, never casually. The Doors of Perception is a detailed account of the first time. The title comes from William Blake's The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

"If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern."

Huxley attempted to open up that door and find the perfect state of grace that he believed was possible for all. The session was recorded and he was able to reconstruct "the trip" and his thoughts very thoroughly. It is quite evident the man truly had a beautiful mind. He is erudite, witty and full of good will toward men.

Ironically, part of the trip occurs at "the world's biggest drugstore", where, browsing through some art books, he waxes eloquent on art and culture. His thoughts on drapery make you believe that folds in a piece of cloth are the most important thing in the world. And I would have to agree.

In the average Madonna or Apostle the strictly human, fully representational element accounts for about ten per cent of the whole. All the rest consists of many colored variations on the inexhaustible theme of crumpled wool or linen. And these non-representational nine-tenths of a Madonna or an Apostle may be just as important qualitatively as they are in quantity.

They had seen the Istigkeit, the Allness and Infinity of folded cloth and had done their best to render it in paint or stone. Necessarily, of course, without success. For the glory and the wonder of pure existence belong to another order, beyond the Power of even the highest art to express. But in Judith's skirt I could clearly see what, if I had been a painter of genius, I might have made of my old gray flannels.

Timothy Leary read Huxley’s book, and they had met at Harvard. However Huxley was dismayed that Doors had been used in the launch of the counterculture of the 1960s. That he ends up on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's was not exactly what he intended. But if he inspired Within You Without You (rather than "come on baby, light my fire") I think he would not have minded.

"We were talking - about the space between us all

And the people - who hide themselves behind a wall of illusion

Never glimpse of truth - then it's far too late - when they pass away." -George Harrison

description

Huxley, second last row, third from the left

Some of Huxley's stoner thoughts:

On Cézanne's self portrait - "What pretensions!" I kept repeating. "Who on earth does he think he is?" The question was not addressed to Cezanne in particular, but to the human species at large. Who did they all think they were? …It's like Arnold Bennett in the Dolomites."

An hilarious art anecdote - "One day towards the end of his life, Blake met Constable at Hampstead and was shown one of the younger artist's sketches. In spite of his contempt for naturalistic art, the old visionary knew a good thing when he saw it- except of course, when it was by Rubens. "This is not drawing," he cried, "this is inspiration!" "I had meant it to be drawing," was Constable's characteristic answer."

Vermeer - "For that mysterious artist was truly gifted-with the vision that perceives the Dharma-Body as the hedge at the bottom of the garden, with the talent to render as much of that vision as the limitations of human capacity permit, and with the prudence to confine himself in his paintings to

the more manageable."

The Le Nain brothers - "They set out, I suppose, to be genre painters; but what they actually produced was a series of human still lives, in which their cleansed perception of the infinite significance of all things is rendered not, as with Vermeer, by subtle enrichment of color and texture, but by a heightened clarity, an obsessive distinctness of form, within an austere, almost monochromatic tonality. "

The schizophrenic - "...a soul not merely unregenerate, but desperately sick into the bargain. His sickness consists in the inability to take refuge from inner and outer reality (as the sane person habitually does) in the homemade universe of common sense - the strictly human world of useful notions, shared symbols and socially acceptable conventions. The schizophrenic is like a man permanently under the influence of mescalin, and therefore unable to shut off the experience of a reality which he is not holy enough to live with, which he cannot explain away because it is the most stubborn of primary facts, and which, because it never permits him to look at the world with merely human eyes, scares him into interpreting its unremitting strangeness, its burning intensity of significance, as the manifestations of human or even cosmic malevolence, calling for the most desperate countermeasures, from murderous violence at one end of the scale to catatonia, or psychological suicide, at the other.

5/5 µg's

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Lisa Reads & Reviews

Mar 19, 2013Lisa Reads & Reviews rated it really liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: owned-paper, non-fiction, philosophical

Increasingly, I'm learning that perception is far more complicated than I ever imagined. Sight, as an example, isn't simply eyes acting like cameras, sending image data to the brain for interpretation. An article in the online journal, Nature, described the mechanism by which the brain "sees" what our eyes are going to see before our eyes see it. This is why we don't view the world through what would otherwise look like a hand-held camera. Research at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine has shown that "the human retina can transmit data at roughly 10 million bits per second."

What the brain does with this data is amazing. For one thing, it compensates for anything that prevents us from seeing things as normal. In 1896, George Stratton experimented with eyeglasses that inverted his vision. After a few days, his brain adapted and Stratton saw everything the right way up.

The brain, needing to process data rapidly, is predisposed to see a perceptual set, which means we see what we expect to see, based largely on prior experience. No wonder children look at the world with such wide eyes--they are truly looking, whereas adults are watching re-runs. All this is necessary from an evolutionary point-of-view, since survival depends on quick data interpretation and reaction--useful for escaping lions, for example.

In The Doors of Perception, (published in 1956), Huxley recounts his personal experience with mescalin and its effect on his senses and thought processes. An interesting springboard into the discussion was Huxley's admission of being quite ordinary in artistic skills, yet wanting to see the world as an artist sees it. Likewise, he wanted to see and feel about the world as would a mystic. Most of the essay described exactly that.

An interesting section, which I expect has been more thoroughly researched by now, discusses adrenochrome, a product of the decomposition of adrenalin. Huxley wrote that adrenochrome "can produce many of the symptoms observed in mescalin intoxication. But adrenochrome probably occurs spontaneously in the human body. In other words, each one of us may be capable of manufacturing a chemical, minute doses of which are known to cause profound changes in consciousness. Certain of these changes are similar to those which occur in that most characteristic plague of the twentieth century, schizophrenia."

Mescalin, it seems, along with chemicals found naturally in the body, can shake up the way the brain normally filters and manipulates data input. Huxley thought it prevented the brain from filtering input from our senses, thereby making everything intense and amazing. The end result was to make other things less important, such as the idea of the individual and our self-importance. If we have a finite capability for 'input', then it stands to reason that turning the valve on the senses will change other aspects of our world view. Huxley coined a term, Mind at Large, which I rather liked--

“Each person is at each moment capable of remembering all that has ever happened to him and of perceiving everything that is happening everywhere in the universe. The function of the brain and nervous system is to protect us from being overwhelmed and confused by this mass of largely useless and irrelevant knowledge, by shutting out most of what we should otherwise perceive or remember at any moment, and leaving only that very small and special selection which is likely to be practically useful. According to such a theory, each one of us is potentially Mind at Large."

In any case, I enjoyed this slim volume as it connects scientific inquiry with what seems to me to be a higher pursuit of our consciousness. The other edge of the sword is that one cannot operate or navigate in this world, outside a lock down mental facility, with other than a brain that functions within certain margins of filtration. While under the influence of mescalin, Huxley lost interest in relationships and all sorts of trivial pursuits necessary to sustain life in society. Seems we are as we need to be, and if one wants to pursue other avenues of consciousness, they'll have to do so within certain limitations.

Sidenote from internet search: "On his deathbed, unable to speak, Huxley made a written request to his wife for "LSD, 100 µg, intramuscular". According to her account of his death, in This Timeless Moment, she obliged with an injection at 11:45 am and another a couple of hours later. He died at 5:21 pm on 22 November 1963, aged 69."

One can't help but wonder what that trip was like.

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Lyn

Jan 04, 2017Lyn rated it liked it · review of another edition

An erudite artist and scholar tripping on mescaline.

Decades before other drug culture manifestos and hippy folios cool cat Aldous Huxley first published his Doors of Perception in 1954 ( the same year as Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword and Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend). The initial part is a first person narrative about his experiences taking peyote and his descriptions of the insight.

Of course what makes this stand out from the legion of trip and tells is his intellectual observations. Huxley’s heightened appreciation for art, music, psychology and philosophy is the antithesis to the Homer Simpson “doh!” or Cheech and Chong weed humor. His drug-induced musings reminded me of the The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick.

The second part, though, is what really hooked me. Huxely’s essay for the promotion of mescaline is all the more timely as we enter the beginning stages of our growing social acceptance of marijuana and the approaching end to that ridiculous prohibition. Huxley, speaking from the early 50s does the green libertarians one better by advocating for mescaline. Like the persuasive argument today about how tobacco and alcohol are far more harmful than illegal pot, Huxley goes on to articulate how mescaline is the more spiritual and beneficial for society and even for religion.

A surprisingly entertaining and illuminating essay.

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P.E.

Nov 23, 2020P.E. rated it it was amazing

Shelves: drugs, mind-games, ideology, transcendentalism, psychology, audiobook, essay, reenchanter-le-monde

“...we were back at home, and I had returned to that reassuring but profoundly unsatisfactory state known as 'being in one's right mind.”

Main themes:

Perception, conceptualization, expression

Art

Escapism

Syncretism

Transcendance and immanence

Selfhood and selflessness

More excerpts :

“Most men and women lead lives at the worst so painful, at the best so monotonous, poor and limited that the urge to escape, the longing to transcend themselves if only for a few moments, is and has always been one of the principal appetites of the soul.”

“To see ourselves as others see us is a most salutary gift. Hardly less important is the capacity to see others as they see themselves. But what if these others belong to a different species and inhabit a radically alien universe? For example, how can the sane get to know what it actually feels like to be mad?”

"Every individual is at once the beneficiary and the victim of the linguistic tradition into which he has been born—the beneficiary inasmuch as language gives access to the accumulated records of other people’s experience, the victim in so far as it confirms him in the belief that reduced awareness is the only awareness and as it bedevils his sense of reality, so that he is all too apt to take his concepts for data, his words for actual things. That which, in the language of religion, is called "this world" is the universe of reduced awareness, expressed, and, as it were, petrified by language."

“I am not so foolish as to equate what happens under the influence of mescalin or of any other drug, prepared or in the future preparable, with the realization of the end and ultimate purpose of human life: Enlightenment, the Beatific Vision. All I am suggesting is that the mescalin experience is what Catholic theologians call "a gratuitous grace," not necessary to salvation but potentially helpful and to be accepted thankfully, if made available. To be shaken out of the ruts of ordinary perception, to be shown for a few timeless hours the outer and the inner world, not as they appear to an animal obsessed with survival or to a human being obsessed with words and notions, but as they are apprehended, directly and unconditionally, by Mind at Large—this is an experience of inestimable value to everyone and especially to the intellectual.”

“For Persons are selves and, in one respect at least, I was now a Not-self, simultaneously perceiving and being the Not-self of the things around me. To this new-born Not-self, the behavior, the appearance, the very thought of the self it had momentarily ceased to be, and of

other selves, its one-time fellows, seemed not indeed distasteful (for distastefulness was not one of the categories in terms of which I was thinking), but enormously irrelevant.”

“From the French window I walked out under a kind of pergola covered in part by a climbing rose tree, in part by laths, one inch wide with half an inch of space between them. The sun was shining and the shadows of the laths made a zebra-like pattern on the ground and across the seat and back of a garden chair, which was standing at this end of the pergola. That chair--shall I ever forget it? Where the shadows fell on the canvas upholstery, stripes of a deep but glowing indigo alternated with stripes of incandescence so intensely bright that it was hard to believe that they could be made of anything but blue fire. For what seemed an immensely long time I gazed without knowing, even without wishing to know, what it was that confronted me. At any other time I would have seen a chair barred with alternate light and shade. Today the precept swallowed up the concept. I was so completely absorbed in looking, so thunderstruck by what I actually saw, that I could not be aware of anything else. Garden furniture, laths, sunlight, shadow--these were no more than names and notions, mere verbalization, for utilitarian or scientific purposes, after the event. The even was this succession of azure furnace doors separated by gulfs of unfathomable gentian. It was wonderful, wonderful to the point, almost, of being terrifying.”

“The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less sure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend”

Kindred mirages:

Les Paradis artificiels

Radio Free Albemuth

Ubik

A Scanner Darkly

Trainspotting

Froth on the Daydream

Junky

Under The Volcano

Steppenwolf

The Daodejing of Laozi

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The Bandersnatch episode from the Black Mirror series

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Easy Rider - Henry Fonda

description

Apocalypse Now - Francis Ford Coppola

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A Scanner Darkly - Richard Linklater

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Enter the Void - Gaspar Noé

SOUNDTRACK:

Alan's psychedelic breakfast - Pink Floyd

Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun - Pink Floyd

Just a Poke - Sweet Smoke

Heart of the Sunrise - Yes

Shangri La - The Kinks

In Search of the Lost Chord - The Moody Blues (especially House of Four Doors)

Aubade & The Tale of Taliesin - Soft Machine

The Errand - Wario Land 4 OST

A Day in the Life - The Beatles (less)

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Michael || TheNeverendingTBR

Oct 28, 2021Michael || TheNeverendingTBR rated it liked it

A classic from the Psychedelic Era.

Huxley goes into detail about his fascinating experiences with the mind expanding substance, mescalin.

This is basically the whole premise of this essay, him describing the results of mescalin ingestion on himself.

A thought-provoking and interesting read.

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J.L. Sutton

Feb 11, 2022J.L. Sutton rated it liked it

“The man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out.”

When Aldous Huxley Opened the Doors of Perception | The MIT Press Reader

In The Doors of Perception, Aldous Huxley's approach to using mescaline (to open the doors of perception) is markedly different from mystics like Carlos Castaneda. Like Castaneda, Huxley explores both ritual and states of non-ordinary reality (to use a term from Castaneda); however, Huxley opens the doors wider as he makes comparisons to experiences of painters and writers, global spiritual traditions, schizophrenia, madness as well as the effects of other drugs.

I liked, for instance, how Huxley compares mescaline use to Cezanne's approach to an idealized 'not-self' that does not covet anything around itself (apparently something Cezanne was aiming for in his paintings). This more philosophical approach is apparent even when Huxley crosses Sunset Boulevard while describing his trip before (coming down) returning to "being in one's right mind." He is also more philosophical as he analyzes the urge to escape/transcend. Written in 1954, Huxley compares society's acceptance of alcohol/alcoholism and addiction to cigarettes along with the negative consequences while arguing for mescaline as less harmful to the individual user and society. For such a short work, Doors of Perception started out painfully slow, but got much more interesting especially after the first half.

"To be shaken out of the ruts of ordinary perception, to be shown for a few timeless hours the outer and the inner world, not as they appear to an animal obsessed with survival or to a human being obsessed with words and notions, but as they are apprehended, directly and unconditionally, by Mind at Large—this is an experience of inestimable value to everyone and especially to the intellectual.”

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Jason Koivu

Dec 13, 2016Jason Koivu rated it liked it

Shelves: non-fiction

This must've blown minds when it came out. Now though, it's lost its edge.

Full disclosure, I'm here because of The Doors...of the Jim Morrison sort. Being a HUGE fan of him and the band, I absorbed all I could of them back during my teens. I even read his poetry. Hell, I even read William Blake's poetry, simply because it apparently influenced Morrison. However, I never did get around to reading Aldous Huxley's The Doors of Perception , the book title from which the band was named. WHAT THE HELL KIND OF A FAN AM I?!?!?!

Well, the reasons for me not getting to it until now are even more boring and inconsequential than this sentence. The point is, I've finally read the damn book. I needn't have bothered. It's pretty much what I figured it would be and there's nothing within it I needed to know.

Backstory: Bookish brainiac Huxley decided to try out the cactus drug peyote. In The Doors... he describes his trip. It's not half as interesting or entering as I'd hoped. (Here's a more entertaining, though less enlightening example: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrIPL...)

Nowadays this stuff is so commonplace as to make this book almost quaint. And the parts that aren't outdated, are just not interesting enough to make this a winner in my book. In fact, Huxley spends so much time, too many pages imo, on art and artists that I began to doubt the need for a book on the topic. I mean, if you've got to use filler in a 60 page novette, the book probably could've just been a lengthy article or pamphlet. I get the connection he's trying to make between the artist mind and that of one on mind-altering drugs, it's just that I don't find it all that enthralling.

Still and all, this has its value. Some of the points Huxley makes herein are still valid. He was clearly an intelligent, well-read man. I guess I just didn't have the same mind-expanding experience as Morrison had when reading this. (less)

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William Strasse

Jun 10, 2009William Strasse rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

I need to read more Huxley...maybe I'll finally dig in to the copy of "The Perennial Philosophy" that I've started on several times (although probably not until after "A Brief History Of Everything"...those two at the same time would be just masochistic.)

Although I did get a lot out of this book, the single thing that really made an impact was the discussion of our brain as a sensory-limiting mechanism which is concerned most of the time with filtering out all but what we need for survival at any given moment. That is how our brain has evolved and how we have risen to the top of the food chain (but look at what we eat!) We have a little more leeway these days, but what do we do with it? Watch "Rock Of Love"? We are at a point in history where we have the capability to evolve and create things beyond our wildest dreams, but we've generally made life so meaningless that most of us just consume increasingly more/"better" (more expensive) products in an attempt to fill the void staring us in the face...that is, the void that was always there, and the one we've created to forget that one. He doesn't get into all that...that's more or less my depressing rant, but perception and consciousness are important words for me...they are the keys to any kind of meaningful life and our collective future.

Part of the reason this made such an impression is that right before reading this part of the book, I was waiting on a bus, thinking that I must be getting old because I was actually early for something...it seems like not that long ago it was a small miracle if I was on time. I thought about how old people always want to be ridiculously early for everything. Then I theorized that most people go through their lives gradually concerning themselves more and more with only the mechanics of life..."Birth, School, Work, Death" in the words of The Godfathers. I'd add bills, doctors appointments, etc...

Then I opened the book and...vee-ola!

So even just in the course of an individual life, the brain gradually imposes tighter limits on itself until all you have is bills and doctors appointments. Of course, it doesn't have to be this way... (less)

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André

Feb 05, 2019André rated it it was amazing

Shelves: psychology, philosophy, classics, nonfiction

"If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.” - William Blake

Aldous Huxley, a renowned writer, mainly famous for his great dystopian work, Brave New World (1931), blasts to the world his transcendental essay: The Doors of Perception, published in 1954.

In this philosophical essay, Huxley describes his spiritual experience with mescaline, taken one day in May 1953. The author makes a detailed description of his experience with 4/10 of a gram of this psychedelic plant. The essay elucidates his visual and spiritual awareness in spatial/time analysis, Art, Nature, Music, Religion, Sociology, Education, Philosophy and Psychology.

Huxley got acquainted about the use of peyote after coming to the United States in 1937. He first became conscious about the cactuses' use after reading an essay written by Humphry Osmond.

After having read Osmond's essay, he got curious about this psychedelic substance and decided to make his experiment with mescaline. Osmond arrives at Huxley's house to accompany him during his spiritual experience. After that, the author's experience was so intense that he decided to tell the tale:

Spatial/time analysis: "Place and distance cease to be of much interest. The mind does its perceiving in terms of intensity of existence, the profundity of significance, relationships within a pattern. I saw the books but was not at all concerned with their positions in space. What I noticed, what impressed itself upon my mind was the fact that all of them glowed with living light and that in some the glory was more manifest than in others. In this context position and the three dimensions were beside the point. Not, of course, that the category of space had been abolished."

Initially, Huxley was expecting to picture brightly colours, but as he stated, he was a "bad visualiser", however, he experiences a more detailed perception of the outer world. The "being" is not separated from "becoming" and the living moment becomes timeless like a neverending present. Colours from the outer world become more vivid and therefore visual impressions are intensified.

"I was looking at my furniture, not as the utilitarian who has to sit on chairs, to write at desks and tables, and not as the cameraman or scientific recorder, but as the pure aesthete whose concern is only with forms and their relationships within the field of vision or the picture space. But as I looked, this purely aesthetic, Cubist's-eye view gave place to what I can only describe as the sacramental vision of reality." The symbolism of the chair is destroyed, and it's perceived beyond a simple object.

Philosophy: "We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances, we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature, every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies—all these are private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable. We can pool information about experiences, but never the experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes."

During Huxley's experience, the ego disappears (egolessness), thus the perception about others begins to be more lucid. Every pattern becomes one and therefore the words and symbols are removed:

"...there is an 'obscure knowledge' that All is in all—that All is each. This is as near, I take it, as a finite mind can ever come to 'perceiving everything that is happening everywhere in the universe. "

The author quotes the eminent Cambridge philosopher, Dr C. D. Broad by saying: "to enable us to live, the brain and nervous system eliminate unessential information from the totality of the 'Mind at Large". This idea explores that the human mind filters reality, and as a result of that, psychedelic drugs are an important element to remove this filter.

"We walked out into the street. A large pale blue automobile was standing at the curb. At the sight of it, I was suddenly overcome by enormous merriment. What complacency, what an absurd self-satisfaction beamed from those bulging surfaces of glossiest enamel! Men had created the thing in his own image - or rather in the image of his favourite character in fiction. I laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks."

Art: Huxley reflected the following statement about the Milkmaid by Johannes Vermeer: "That mysterious artist was truly gifted with the vision that perceives the Dharma-Body as the hedge at the bottom of the garden". He states that Vermeer's paintings are magnificent examples of life within. In another hand, Cézanne's Self-portrait with a straw hat seems incredibly pretentious. These experiences prove that even by being a bad visualiser, Huxley managed to feel vivid emotions from those paintings.

Music: "Instrumental music, oddly enough, left me rather cold. Mozart's C-Minor Piano Concerto was interrupted after the first movement, and a recording of some madrigals by Gesualdo took its place...But, as it turned out, I was wrong. Actually, the music sounded rather funny"

Once again, Huxley's auditory perception is changed, becoming more vivid and thus his initial perception about those music works has changed.

Psychology: "The schizophrenic is a soul not merely unregenerate, but desperately sick into the bargain. His sickness consists in the inability to take refuge from inner and outer reality (as the sane person habitually does) in the homemade universe of common sense - the strictly human world of useful notions shared symbols and socially acceptable conventions."

The author elucidates that Schizophrenia can be heaven and hell because those who suffer this pathology doesn't distinguish the inner world from the outer world. It's also stated that those who suffer from anxiety and periodical depression might have different experiences under the influence of mescaline.

"Most takers of mescalin experience only the heavenly part of schizophrenia."

Nature: "We drove on, and so long as we remained in the hills, with view succeeding distant view, significance was at its everyday level, well below transfiguration point."

The view from the hills became abruptly lucid, just like the perspective described from those landscape painters.

Sociology: "Equally unsurprising is the current attitude towards drink and smoke. In spite of the growing army of hopeless alcoholics, in spite of the hundreds of thousands of persons annually maimed or killed by drunken drivers, popular comedians still crack jokes about alcohol and its addicts... The only reasonable policy is to open other, better doors in the hope of inducing men and women to exchange their old bad habits for new and less harmful ones."

Religion : "Christianity and mescalin seem to be much more compatible. This has been demonstrated by many tribes of Indians, from Texas to as far north as Wisconsin. Among these tribes are to be found groups affiliated with the Native American Church, a sect whose principal rite is a kind of Early Christian agape, or love feast, where slices of peyote take the place of the sacramental bread and wine."

Self-transcendence can be found in religion and therefore, Christianity and mescaline are well-suited for each other, however, it is unlikely to happen as Huxley stated in his essay.

"All I am suggesting is that the mescalin experience is what Catholic theologians call "a gratuitous grace," not necessary to salvation but potentially helpful and to be accepted thankfully, if made available...a human being obsessed with words and notions, but as they are apprehended, directly and unconditionally."

Education: "In a world where education is predominantly verbal, highly educated people find it all but impossible to pay serious attention to anything but words and notions. The non-verbal humanities, the arts of being directly aware of the given facts of our existence, are almost completely ignored."

Aldous Huxley managed to describe his experience in an enlightened way. He elucidated his experience in such an illuminating way that it was impossible not to quote his standpoints. The author's universalism is highly depicted in his philosophical and religious points of view. It's asserted in the essay that spiritual experiences will transform anyone for the better, and I couldn't agree more! I just personally don't agree that psychedelic drugs are well-suited for Christianity or to any religion whatsoever. Words, prayers, slogans are notions and symbols intrinsically correlated to Religion in general. Psychedelic drugs are still seen with disregard and therefore it will not be intrinsically connected to Religion. I personally believe that spirituality can be separated from Religion, but that would be a more detailed topic to discuss...

I do practice meditation, and I was tremendously curious to read this book. I found very elucidative, mind-blowing and inspiring how the details were depicted throughout the text. When I was younger, I was very sceptic about these spiritual experiences, but when I became older, I realized that these transcendental experiences are quite relevant for self-fulfilment (either with psychedelic drugs or through meditation). I recommend anyone to read this book (even to sceptics). It's undoubtedly, a mind-bending book that questions our reality and gives new paths to our general perception of the world.

No wonder Jim Morrison baptised his band's name "The Doors"...

Rating: 4.5/5 Stars (less)

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Wanda Pedersen

Aug 21, 2021Wanda Pedersen rated it liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: public-library, read-in-2021, biography-memoirs, non-fiction

I listen to CBC radio a lot, one of the side effects of not owning a television. One of the by-products of all this radio time is the addition of many books of different subject areas added to my TBR. This is one of those books. The radio show that I listened to was called High Culture, about the therapeutic use of the psychedelic drugs. If you are interested, Part One (of three) can be found here: https://www.cbc.ca/radio/ideas/high-c...

This book is apparently where The Doors got the name of their band, not surprising in the swinging sixties when psychedelics were prevalent. What I found intriguing was the use of mescaline by an author that I was familiar with and with a Canadian connection. His dose of the drug was supplied by a doctor at a Canadian hospital and that same doctor supervised his first experience. (Dr. Humphrey Osmond, a British doctor working at the Weyburn Mental Hospital in Weyburn, Saskatchewan).

I found it interesting that in his Brave New World (1932) Huxley wrote about a drug called Soma which the people in his world used to escape unpleasantness. It was written well before this mescaline experiment (1953) but it informs his willingness to try the drug. Until reading this, I was unaware of Huxley's interest in Eastern religions. That background too would make his desire to experiment understandable.

Subjective experiences like these are difficult to measure or quantify, so this attempt to observe his own mystic experience scientifically is interesting. Perhaps it was motivated by the influence of his grandfather Thomas Henry Huxley and two siblings who were all involved in the biological sciences.

I've never had any inclination towards any kind of drug use, but after reading this book and listening to the 3 radio programs, I wouldn't hesitate to try psilocybin if I was offered a serene environment and an experienced supervisor. (But, as both Huxley and one of the interviewed psychologists say, without those two conditions the trip can go drastically wrong.) The aboriginal people who use peyote do so in supportive groups and they have been using it successfully for hundreds of years.

A fascinating glimpse into our collective unconscious.

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Kevin

Mar 30, 2022Kevin rated it liked it · review of another edition

Shelves: non-fiction, science, classics, reviewed, philosophy, psychology

“…Christianity and alcohol do not and cannot mix. Christianity and mescalin seem to be much more compatible.”

An interesting but very unscientific survey of one; Huxley’s mescaline (peyote) experiment, May 1953, had him contemplating the fabric of space/time whilst entranced by the folds of his trousers.

Okay, I’ll concede that narcotics and hallucinogens may have inspired a few great works of art and literature but I remain highly skeptical of the scientific value of any anecdotal accounting of drug-induced euphoria. There are good reasons why many outspoken proponents of “expanded perceptions” had tormented and/or shortened lives (Jim Morrison, Philip Dick, Jack Kerouac, etc.). 3 stars.

“Reality is just a crutch for people who can’t handle drugs.” ~Robin Williams (less)

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Lindu Pindu

Oct 18, 2011Lindu Pindu rated it really liked it

Shelves: religion-spirituality, non-fiction

Huxley. Not on my list of great writers, but an interesting person with ideas.

There are more illuminating books on psychoactive substances, but this would perform well as a primer for those completely brainwashed into thinking that drug-takers are dazed hippies. I see them/us as *seekers*, people seeking to believe in something they can see and experience in an age where we don't take words like mind, soul, reason for granted anymore. This is exactly the point of view Huxley uses here. Also, imagining the guy hunching next to the bamboo legs of a chair whilst gazing at them with childlike delight is a nice little visual.

Read it, it'll only take you one evening. Keep an art book/laptop at hand- there are quite a few references to works of art that you might want to see.

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Liam O'Leary

Mar 22, 2020Liam O'Leary rated it it was amazing

Shelves: on-philosophy, on-spirituality, on-art, on-psychiatry

My 5th best read of 2020.

Best book to convince someone that (hallucinogenic) drugs could improve or at least add new detail to one's perception of objective reality. It's difficult to agree with or understand all of it, but the form of them is very unique and make this phenomenal reading. Who knows whether this is fiction or non-fiction!

As a neuroscientist studying psychiatry I find many of the ideas here theoretically visionary but lacking clear experimental evidence but in a way these ideas always will. This feels a bit like reading psychoanalysis or art theory. I should have read this earlier, for anyone who is interested in mind it's concise and worth your time. (less)

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Mike

Mar 24, 2014Mike rated it did not like it

Huxley's writing is brilliant and a joy to read. The work is littered throughout with so much religious and philosophical allusions, which adds to the thoughtful depth. I found it to be quite fascinating.

However, his conclusions leave empty. Essentially, it's religion achieved through chemistry. And his conception of religion focuses purely on the subjective. It's no surprise that he refers to Eckhart, Boehme, and eastern philosophy so often; he looks only at the "inner light" rather than considering an external objectivism. (less)

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Jon Nakapalau

Aug 23, 2016Jon Nakapalau rated it it was amazing · review of another edition

Shelves: classics, philosophy, psychology, favorites, pop-culture

Aldous Huxley takes us through doors that we may never have gone through. I will never forget the "luminous books" that seemed to pulse and glow with their own aura of differing colors. Not to mention that one of my favorite bands of all time took their name after this book. (less)

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Quiver

Jul 11, 2018Quiver rated it it was ok · review of another edition

Shelves: a-english, n-non-fiction, t-art

Thus it came about that, one bright May morning, four-tenths of a gram of mescaline dissolved in half a glass of water and sat down to wait for the results.

What ensues is a description of the experience written retroactively, with the help of taped conversations taken at the time, and interspersed with commentary on art, philosophy, and the usefulness (and abuse) of drugs in reaching altered states. Some themes: mind as a valve that regulates how much the chaos and infinity of the universe we can access (without the valve we'd be swamped); perception of time and space; mind and body separation; exploration of visual changes brought upon by mescaline (less so the other senses); art and what it means to be a visionary; specific references to painters (Van Gogh chiefly), the attraction of draperies, patterns and colours.

Ultimately, it felt rather broken up, mystical, and chaotic—a little like the high he describes and perhaps deliberately so. To the detriment of the reader, however. (less)

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Avishek Das

Mar 09, 2017Avishek Das rated it really liked it

This has opened some aspects & still some are in mirage. I would read again and again over the ages & believe will be able to decode more...

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Peter

Dec 17, 2018Peter rated it really liked it

Huxley is a great thinker and philosopher. Here he examines what the element of pure art is. As a background he deals with mescalin and its impact on body and mind. I was especially fond of his mentioning of Vermeer and why we still love his paintings. Also the reference to Plato's mistake was remarkable. Great essay and absolute reading recommendation! (less)

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Czarny Pies

May 31, 2019Czarny Pies rated it did not like it

Recommends it for: Fans of Jimmy Morrison and the Doors

Shelves: english-lit

I read this because I had a friend who owned several Doors albums and was curious to learn more about the book that had inspired the name of the band. I had also enjoyed "Brave New World."

It's not the worst thing that I have read but it has nothing to recommend itself. (less)

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Matthew Ted

Apr 30, 2020Matthew Ted rated it it was amazing

Shelves: 20th-century, lit-british, non-fiction, essays

This is the review copied from my review of The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell which I read earlier this year, both combined in one book - that review can be found here. Otherwise, below is solely for The Doors of Perception.

Huxley takes 4/10 of a gram of mescaline and writes about the experience. Mescalin is comparable with LSD. I wasn't expecting much from the writings of his 'experience' but I found it fascinating. Of course, the world is more desensitised to drugs now; on the whole, we are more familiar with them, their effects, but I still found Huxley's work insightful, even humorous at times, as he stares fascinated at the folds in his clothes, or at flowers. These are the best bits, I think.

Visual impressions are greatly intensified and the eye recovers some of the perceptual innocence of childhood, when the sensum was not immediately and automatically subordinated to the concept. Interest in space is diminished and interest in time falls almost to zero.

Though the intellect remains unimpaired and though perception is enormously improved, the will suffers a profound change for the worse. The mescalin taker sees no reason for doing anything in particular and finds most of the causes for which, at ordinary times, he was prepared to act and suffer, profoundly uninteresting. He can't be bothered with them, for the good reason that he has better things to think about.

Man's highly developed colour sense is a biological luxury- inestimably precious to him as an intellectual and spiritual being, but unnecessary to his survival as an animal.

Huxley has the recordings of his conversations with the investigator. He kept saying, over and over, 'This is how one ought to see.'

These are my favourite two observations from Huxley -

The legs, for example of that chair- how miraculous their tubularity, how supernatural their polished smoothness! I spent several minutes- or was it several centuries?- not merely gazing at those bamboo legs, but actually being them- or rather being myself in them

At this stage in the proceedings I was handed a large coloured reproduction of the well-known self portrait by Cezanne- the head and shoulders of a man in a large straw hat, red-cheeked, red-lipped, with rich black whiskers and a dark unfriendly eye. It is a magnificent painting; but it was not as a painting that I now saw it. For the head promptly took on a third dimension and came to life as a small goblin-like man looking out through a window in the page before me. I started to laugh. And when they asked me why, 'What pretensions!' I kept repeating. 'Who on earth does he think he is?' The question was not addressed to Cezanne in particular, but to the human species at large. Who did they all think they were? (less)

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===

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/jan/26/doors-perception-huxley-mescaline-reading-group

The Doors of Perception: What did Huxley see in mescaline?

The Doors of Perception
	First edition, published in 1954
Author	Aldous Huxley
Country	United Kingdom
Language	English
Subject	Philosophy; psychology;
Published	1954 Chatto & Windus (UK); Harper & Row (US)
Media type	Print (hardback & paperback)
Pages	63 (hardcover, first edition; without the accompanying 1956 essay Heaven and Hell)
ISBN	0-06-059518-3
OCLC	54372147
Dewey Decimal	615/.7883 22
LC Class	RM666.P48 H9 2004

Given his damaged sight, the book's emphasis on the visual is all the more piquant, complicating the question of how much its visions reveal

Aldous Huxley in 1956, aged 61, days after he married Laura. Photograph: AP

The known facts are these: in 1911, while this scion of one of the UK's foremost intellectual families was studying at Eton, he suffered from a very unpleasant illness called keratatis, which left him blind for several years. Huxley's vision recovered enough for him to study at Oxford, with the aid of thick glasses and a magnifying glass, but further deteriorated over the next 20 or so years.

It's in 1939 that things become murky. Desperate for help, Huxley was persuaded to pursue the Bates Method, a controversial theory (now largely debunked) suggesting, among other things, that glasses shouldn't be worn, natural sunlight could be beneficial and a series of exercises and techniques could help improve vision. He claimed impressive results: "Within a couple of months I was reading without spectacles and, what was better still, without strain and fatigue … At the present time, my vision, though very far from normal, is about twice as good as it used to be when I wore spectacles."

That quote comes from The Art Of Seeing, the book he published about his experiences with The Bates Method in 1942. Reviews, were mixed at best. The British Medical Journal review declared: "For the simple neurotic who has abundance of time to play with, Huxley's antics of palming, shifting, flashing, and the rest are probably as good treatment as any other system of Yogi or Couéism. To these the book may be of value. It is hardly possible that it will impress anyone endowed with common sense and a critical faculty."

In the same article the author suggested that Huxley's vision may actually have improved naturally with time as some conditions move in cycles. Others, meanwhile, doubted that he could see much at all. Wikipedia cites a Saturday Review column from Bennett Cerf published in 1952, just two years before The Doors Of Perception, describes Huxley speaking at a Hollywood banquet, wearing no glasses and seemingly reading from his notes with ease: "Then suddenly he faltered — and the disturbing truth became obvious. He wasn't reading his address at all. He had learned it by heart. To refresh his memory he brought the paper closer and closer to his eyes. When it was only an inch or so away he still couldn't read it, and had to fish for a magnifying glass in his pocket to make the typing visible to him. It was an agonising moment."

In Huxley's defence, he always admitted he still needed a magnifying glass, but whichever way you look at all these arguments, they add an edge to the writer's enthusiastic artistic criticism in The Doors Of Perception. Was he protesting too much? Alternatively, was his delight and concern for the visual world all the more heightened because he had fought so hard to retain his sight – and knew what it means to lose it. Given that The Art Of Seeing had aroused such anger and doubt, was he perhaps using the Doors Of Perception as a way to answer his critics? Is it possible that Huxley's subconscious was operating in ways he didn't care to acknowledge?

Well, maybe. But now I'm in the realm of speculation. Just before I leave, one more conjecture: Huxley wouldn't be entirely delighted at the suggestion the book is somehow about his eye trouble. For him, it was all about mescaline. The message was the drug and its astonishing potential. It marked (forgive me) the high point in a lifelong obsession.

As anyone familiar with Brave New World will know, Huxley's most famous novel also shows the influence of drugs. The citizens of the future are nearly all hopped up on Soma, a powerful hallucinogen that allows "a holiday" from reality, imparts a tremendous feeling of well-being, softens up the mind and poisons the body. In the climactic scene in the book, when John the Savage rebels against Fordist society, his anger is concentrated on Soma, which has come to symbolise all that is rotten in this future-state.

It's fascinating to re-read this earlier book in the light of The Doors Of Perception – especially since, in it, Huxley frequently suggests that Soma is very similar to mescaline in its effects. Back in the 1930s, he even described mescaline as a worse poison than Soma, rendering poor Linda vomitous and even dumber than usual.

Clearly, in the 22 years between the publication of the two books Huxley revised his opinions about the drug. By the time he finally sampled mescaline he was convinced it would offer him insight rather than the distraction from reality offered by Soma. As The Doors Of Perception demonstrates the drug exceeded his expectations. Huxley was to remain a dedicated psychonaut for the rest of his life.

On Christmas Eve 1955, he took his first dose of LSD, an experience he was to repeat often and he claimed allowed him to plumb even greater depths than mescaline. The literary culmination of this self-medication can be seen in Island, the 1962 novel, which can be viewed as an answer to Brave New World. It describes a utopia rather than a dystopia, and this time around drugs perform an entirely beneficial function, providing serenity and understanding. They are as the book puts it, "medicine".

Ironically, Pala, Huxley's utopia sounds even worse than the alternative future Huxley describes in Brave New World. The Palanese are crashing bores. They are the kind of people who (in one of the most inadvertently hilarious passages I've read) think it's OK to rewrite the climax of Oedipus Rex with a lecture from some Palanese children, who inform the luckless mother-lover that he is being "silly" and ought to follow their philosophy rather than tear his eyes out … But never mind that. Although it is awful in many regards, Island still holds the charm of Huxley's cultured prose and fertile mind. The knowledge that he wrote the book shortly after his first wife died from cancer and he himself had received a terminal diagnosis also adds real poignancy to the book's many passages about coping with disease. One of his ideas is that tripping may ease the passage into that good night – advice he famously took on 22 November 1963 when he asked his wife second wife Laura Huxley to give him LSD. "Light and free you let go, darling; forward and up," she whispered to him as he drifted away. "You are going forward and up; you are going toward the light."

We'll never know how Huxley's final trip went, but we do know that his psychedelic experiments had a remarkable afterlife. (Psychedelic, incidentally, was a word Huxley helped coin along with Humphry Osmond. Huxley can lay considerable claim to kick-starting the 1960s revolution in the head. It wasn't just the fact that The Doors Of Perception was so influential. He was also personally instrumental in introducing luminaries like Allen Ginsberg and Timothy Leary to the possibilities of psychedelic experimentation (as described in the early pages of Martin Lee and Bruce Shlain's Acid Dreams, the definitive story of the way LSD swept through America in the 1960s – thanks to the many contributors Reading group who recommended that).

It's safe to say that Huxley changed the world. Without him there might have been no turn on, tune in, drop out, no Merry Pranksters, no Sergeant Pepper, no Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, no Focus.

I scoffed when I read JG Ballard's introduction to my edition of The Doors Of Perception and he said that the book was "even more prophetic" than Brave New World (and also, incidentally, that Brave New World is more prophetic than Orwell's 1984). As this Reading group month draws to a close, I can see that – as usual – Ballard was quite right. The book didn't just point the way to the future (or one potential version of it), it changed it. The big question now is whether it has opened any doors for you? Has Huxley changed your view of mescaline and/or reality? And are you tempted to follow in his footsteps?

==

https://maps.org/images/pdf/books/HuxleyA1954TheDoorsOfPerception.pdf

ALDOUS HUXLEY

THE DOORS OF PERCEPTION

[first 20 pages]

It was in 1886 that the German pharmacologist, Louis Lewin, published the first systematic study of the cactus, to which his own name was subsequently given. Anhalonium lewinii was new to science. To primitive religion and the Indians of Mexico and the American Southwest it was a friend of immemorially long standing. Indeed, it was much more than a friend. In the words of one of the early Spanish visitors to the New World, "they eat a root which they call peyote, and which they venerate as though it were a deity."

Why they should have venerated it as a deity became apparent when such eminent psychologists as Jaensch, Havelock Ellis and Weir Mitchell began their experiments with mescalin, the active principle of peyote. True, they stopped short at a point well this side of idolatry; but all concurred in assigning to mescalin a position among drugs of unique distinction. Administered in suitable doses, it changes the quality of consciousness more profoundly and yet is less toxic than any other substance in the pharmacologist's repertory.

Mescalin research has been going on sporadically ever since the days of Lewin and Havelock Ellis. Chemists have not merely isolated the alkaloid; they have learned how to synthesize it, so that the supply no longer depends on the sparse and intermittent crop of a desert cactus. Alienists have dosed themselves with mescalin in the hope thereby of coming to a better, a first-hand, understanding of their patients' mental processes. Working unfortunately upon too few subjects within too narrow a range of circumstances, psychologists have observed and catalogued some of the drug's more striking effects. Neurologists and physiologists have found out something about the mechanism of its action upon the central nervous system. And at least one Professional philosopher has taken mescalin for the light it may throw on such ancient, unsolved riddles as the place of mind in nature and the relationship between brain and consciousness .

There matters rested until, two or three years ago, a new and perhaps highly significant fact was observed . Actually the fact had been staring everyone in the face for several decades; but nobody, as it happened, had noticed it until a Young English psychiatrist, at present working in Canada, was struck by the close similarity, in chemical composition, between mescalin and adrenalin. Further research revealed that lysergic acid, an extremely potent hallucinogen derived from ergot, has a structural biochemical relationship to the others. Then came the discovery that adrenochrome, which is a product of the decomposition of adrenalin, can produce many of the symptoms observed in mescalin intoxication. But adrenochrome probably occurs spontaneously in the human body. In other words, each one of us may be capable of manufacturing a chemical, minute doses of which are known to cause Profound changes in consciousness. Certain of these changes are similar to those which occur in that most characteristic plague of the twentieth century, schizophrenia. Is the mental disorder due to a chemical disorder? And is the chemical disorder due, in its turn, to psychological distresses affecting the adrenals? It would be rash and premature to affirm it. The most we can say is that some kind of a prima facie case has been made out. Meanwhile the clue is being systematically followed, the sleuths biochemists , psychiatrists, psychologists - are on the trail.

By a series of, for me, extremely fortunate circumstances I found myself, in the spring of 1953, squarely athwart that trail. One of the sleuths had come on business to California. In spite of seventy years of mescalin research, the psychological material at his disposal was still absurdly inadequate, and he was anxious to add to it. I was on the spot and willing, indeed eager, to be a guinea pig. Thus it came about that, one bright May morning, I swallowed four-tenths of a gram of mescalin dissolved in half a glass of water and sat down to wait for the results.

We live together, we act on, and react to, one another; but always and in all circumstances we are by ourselves. The martyrs go hand in hand into the arena; they are crucified alone. Embraced, the lovers desperately try to fuse their insulated ecstasies into a single self-transcendence; in vain. By its very nature every embodied spirit is doomed to suffer and enjoy in solitude. Sensations, feelings, insights, fancies - all these are private and, except through symbols and at second hand, incommunicable. We can pool information about experiences, but never the experiences themselves. From family to nation, every human group is a society of island universes. Most island universes are sufficiently like one another to Permit of inferential understanding or even of mutual empathy or "feeling into." Thus, remembering our own bereavements and humiliations, we can condole with others in analogous circumstances, can put ourselves (always, of course, in a slightly Pickwickian sense) in their places. But in certain cases communication between universes is incomplete or even nonexistent. The mind is its own place, and the Places inhabited by the insane and the exceptionally gifted are so different from the places where ordinary men and women live, that there is little or no common ground of memory to serve as a basis for understanding or fellow feeling. Words are uttered, but fail to enlighten. The things and events to which the symbols refer belong to mutually exclusive realms of experience.

To see ourselves as others see us is a most salutary gift. Hardly less important is the capacity to see others as they see themselves. But what if these others belong to a different species and inhabit a radically alien universe? For example, how can the sane get to know what it actually feels like to be mad? Or, short of being born again as a visionary, a medium, or a musical genius, how can we ever visit the worlds which, to Blake, to Swedenborg, to Johann Sebastian Bach, were home? And how can a man at the extreme limits of ectomorphy and cerebrotonia ever put himself in the place of one at the limits of endomorphy and viscerotonia, or, except within certain circumscribed areas, share the feelings of one who stands at the limits of mesomorphy and somatotonia? To the unmitigated behaviorist such questions, I suppose, are meaningless. But for those who theoretically believe what in practice they know to be true - namely, that there is an inside to experience as well as an outside - the problems posed are real problems, all the more grave for being, some completely insoluble, some soluble only in exceptional circumstances and by methods not available to everyone. Thus, it seems virtually certain that I shall never know what it feels like to be Sir John Falstaff or Joe Louis. On the other hand, it had always seemed to me possible that, through hypnosis, for example, or autohypnosis, by means of systematic meditation, or else by taking the appropriate drug, I might so change my ordinary mode of consciousness as to be able to know, from the inside, what the visionary, the medium, even the mystic were talking about.

From what I had read of the mescalin experience I was convinced in advance that the drug would admit me, at least for a few hours, into the kind of inner world described by Blake and AE. But what I had expected did not happen. I had expected to lie with my eyes shut, looking at visions of manycolored geometries, of animated architectures, rich with gems and fabulously lovely, of landscapes with heroic figures, of symbolic dramas trembling perpetually on the verge of the ultimate revelation. But I had not reckoned, it was evident, with the idiosyncrasies of my mental make-up, the facts of my temperament, training and habits.

I am and, for as long as I can remember, I have always been a poor visualizer. Words, even the pregnant words of poets, do not evoke pictures in my mind. No hypnagogic visions greet me on the verge of sleep. When I recall something, the memory does not present itself to me as a vividly seen event or object. By an effort of the will, I can evoke a not very vivid image of what happened yesterday afternoon, of how the Lungarno used to look before the bridges were destroyed, of the Bayswater Road when the only buses were green and tiny and drawn by aged horses at three and a half miles an hour. But such images have little substance and absolutely no autonomous life of their own. They stand to real, perceived objects in the same relation as Homer's ghosts stood to the men of flesh and blood, who came to visit them in the shades. Only when I have a high temperature do my mental images come to independent life. To those in whom the faculty of visualization is strong my inner world must seem curiously drab, limited and uninteresting. This was the world - a poor thing but my own - which I expected to see transformed into something completely unlike itself.

The change which actually took place in that world was in no sense revolutionary. Half an hour after swallowing the drug I became aware of a slow dance of golden lights. A little later there were sumptuous red surfaces swelling and expanding from bright nodes of energy that vibrated with a continuously changing, patterned life. At another time the closing of my eyes revealed a complex of gray structures, within which pale bluish spheres kept emerging into intense solidity and, having emerged, would slide noiselessly upwards, out of sight. But at no time were there faces or forms of men or animals. I saw no landscapes, no enormous spaces, no magical growth and metamorphosis of buildings, nothing remotely like a drama or a parable. The other world to which mescalin admitted me was not the world of visions; it existed out there, in what I could see with my eyes open. The great change was in the realm of objective fact. What had happened to my subjective universe was relatively unimportant.

I took my pill at eleven. An hour and a half later, I was sitting in my study, looking intently at a small glass vase. The vase contained only three flowers-a full-blown Belie of Portugal rose, shell pink with a hint at every petal's base of a hotter, flamier hue; a large magenta and cream-colored carnation; and, pale purple at the end of its broken stalk, the bold heraldic blossom of an iris. Fortuitous and provisional, the little nosegay broke all the rules of traditional good taste. At breakfast that morning I had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colors. But that was no longer the point. I was not looking now at an unusual flower arrangement. I was seeing what Adam had seen on the morning of his creation-the miracle, moment by moment, of naked existence.

"Is it agreeable?" somebody asked. (During this Part of the experiment, all conversations were recorded on a dictating machine, and it has been possible for me to refresh my memory of what was said.)

"Neither agreeable nor disagreeable," I answered. "it just is."

Istigkeit - wasn't that the word Meister Eckhart liked to use? "Is-ness." The Being of Platonic philosophy - except that Plate seems to have made the enormous, the grotesque mistake of separating Being from becoming and identifying it with the mathematical abstraction of the Idea. He could never, poor fellow, have seen a bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light and all but quivering under the pressure of the significance with which they were charged; could never have perceived that what rose and iris and carnation so intensely signified was nothing more, and nothing less, than what they were - a transience that was yet eternal life, a perpetual perishing that was at the same time pure Being, a bundle of minute, unique particulars in which, by some unspeakable and yet self-evident paradox, was to be seen the divine source of all existence.

I continued to look at the flowers, and in their living light I seemed to detect the qualitative equivalent of breathing -but of a breathing without returns to a starting point, with no recurrent ebbs but only a repeated flow from beauty to heightened beauty, from deeper to ever deeper meaning. Words like "grace" and "transfiguration" came to my mind, and this, of course, was what, among other things, they stood for. My eyes traveled from the rose to the carnation, and from that feathery incandescence to the smooth scrolls of sentient amethyst which were the iris. The Beatific Vision, Sat Chit Ananda, BeingAwareness-Bliss-for the first time I understood, not on the verbal level, not by inchoate hints or at a distance, but precisely and completely what those prodigious syllables referred to. And then I remembered a passage I had read in one of Suzuki's essays. "What is the Dharma-Body of the Buddha?" ('"the Dharma-Body of the Buddha" is another way of saying Mind, Suchness, the Void, the Godhead.) The question is asked in a Zen monastery by an earnest and bewildered novice. And with the prompt irrelevance of one of the Marx Brothers, the Master answers, "The hedge at the bottom of the garden." "And the man who realizes this truth," the novice dubiously inquires, '"what, may I ask, is he?" Groucho gives him a whack over the shoulders with his staff and answers, "A golden-haired lion."

It had been, when I read it, only a vaguely pregnant piece of nonsense. Now it was all as clear as day, as evident as Euclid. Of course the Dharma-Body of the Buddha was the hedge at the bottom of the garden. At the same time, and no less obviously, it was these flowers, it was anything that I - or rather the blessed Not-I, released for a moment from my throttling embrace - cared to look at. The books, for example, with which my study walls were lined. Like the flowers, they glowed, when I looked at them, with brighter colors, a profounder significance. Red books, like rubies; emerald books; books bound in white jade; books of agate; of aquamarine, of yellow topaz; lapis lazuli books whose color was so intense, so intrinsically meaningful, that they seemed to be on the point of leaving the shelves to thrust themselves more insistently on my attention.

"What about spatial relationships?" the investigator inquired, as I was looking at the books.

It was difficult to answer. True, the perspective looked rather odd, and the walls of the room no longer seemed to meet in right angles. But these were not the really important facts. The really important facts were that spatial relationships had ceased to matter very much and that my mind was perceiving the world in terms of other than spatial categories. At ordinary times the eye concerns itself with such problems as Where? - How far? How situated in relation to what? In the mescalin experience the implied questions to which the eye responds are of another order. Place and distance cease to be of much interest. The mind does its Perceiving in terms of intensity of existence, profundity of significance, relationships within a pattern. I saw the books, but was not at all concerned with their positions in space. What I noticed, what impressed itself upon my mind was the fact that all of them glowed with living light and that in some the glory was more manifest than in others. In this context position and the three dimensions were beside the point. Not, of course, that the category of space had been abolished. When I got up and walked about, I could do so quite normally, without misjudging the whereabouts of objects. Space was still there; but it had lost its predominance. The mind was primarily concerned, not with measures and locations, but with being and meaning.

And along with indifference to space there went an even more complete indifference to time. "There seems to be plenty of it," was all I would answer, when the investigator asked me to say what I felt about time. Plenty of it, but exactly how much was entirely irrelevant. I could, of course, have looked at my watch; but my watch, I knew, was in another universe. My actual experience had been, was still, of an indefinite duration or alternatively of a perpetual present made up of one continually changing apocalypse.

From the books the investigator directed my attention to the furniture. A small typing table stood in the center of the room; beyond it, from my point of view, was a wicker chair and beyond that a desk. The three pieces formed an intricate pattern of horizontals, uprights and diagonals - a pattern all the more interesting for not being interpreted in terms of spatial relationships. Table, chair and desk came together in a composition that was like something by Braque or Juan Gris, a still life recognizably related to the objective world, but rendered without depth, without any attempt at photographic realism. I was looking at my furniture, not as the utilitarian who has to sit on chairs, to write at desks and tables, and not as the cameraman or scientific recorder, but as the pure aesthete whose concern is only with forms and their relationships within the field of vision or the picture space. But as I looked, this purely aesthetic, Cubist's-eye view gave place to what I can only describe as the sacramental vision of reality. I was back where I had been when I was looking at the flowers-back in a world where everything shone with the Inner Light, and was infinite in its significance. The legs, for example, of that chair - how miraculous their tubularity, how supernatural their polished smoothness! I spent several minutes - or was it several centuries? - not merely gazing at those bamboo legs, but actually being them - or rather being myself in them; or, to be still more accurate (for "I" was not involved in the case, nor in a certain sense were "they") being my Not-self in the Not-self which was the chair.

Reflecting on my experience, I find myself agreeing with the eminent Cambridge philosopher, Dr. C. D. Broad, "that we should do well to consider much more seriously than we have hitherto been inclined to do the type of theory which Bergson put forward in connection with memory and sense perception. The suggestion is that the function of the brain and nervous system and sense organs is in the main eliminative and not productive. Each person is at each moment capable of remembering all that has ever happened to him and of perceiving everything that is happening everywhere in the universe. The function of the brain and nervous system is to protect us from being overwhelmed and confused by this mass of largely useless and irrelevant knowledge, by shutting out most of what we should otherwise perceive or remember at any moment, and leaving only that very small and special selection which is likely to be practically useful." According to such a theory, each one of us is potentially Mind at Large. But in so far as we are animals, our business is at all costs to survive. To make biological survival possible, Mind at Large has to be funneled through the reducing valve of the brain and nervous system. What comes out at the other end is a measly trickle of the kind of consciousness which will help us to stay alive on the surface of this Particular planet. To formulate and express the contents of this reduced awareness, man has invented and endlessly elaborated those symbol-systems and implicit philosophies which we call languages. Every individual is at once the beneficiary and the victim of the linguistic tradition into which he has been born - the beneficiary inasmuch as language gives access to the accumulated records of other people's experience, the victim in so far as it confirms him in the belief that reduced awareness is the only awareness and as it bedevils his sense of reality, so that he is all too apt to take his concepts for data, his words for actual things. That which, in the language of religion, is called "this world" is the universe of reduced awareness, expressed, and, as it were, petrified by language. The various "other worlds," with which human beings erratically make contact are so many elements in the totality of the awareness belonging to Mind at Large. Most people, most of the time, know only what comes through the reducing valve and is consecrated as genuinely real by the local language. Certain persons, however, seem to be born with a kind of by-pass that circumvents the reducing valve. In others temporary bypasses may be acquired either spontaneously, or as the result of deliberate "spiritual exercises," or through hypnosis, or by means of drugs. Through these permanent or temporary by-passes there flows, not indeed the perception "of everything that is happening everywhere in the universe" (for the by-pass does not abolish the reducing valve, which still excludes the total content of Mind at Large), but something more than, and above ah something different from, the carefully selected utilitarian material which our narrowed, individual minds regard as a complete, or at least sufficient, picture of reality.

The brain is provided with a number of enzyme systems which serve to co-ordinate its workings. Some of these enzymes regulate the supply of glucose to the brain cells. Mescalin inhibits the production of these enzymes and thus lowers the amount of glucose available to an organ that is in constant need of sugar. When mescalin reduces the brain's normal ration of sugar what happens? Too few cases have been observed, and therefore a comprehensive answer cannot yet be given. But what happens to the majority of the few who have taken mescalin under supervision can be summarized as follows.

The ability to remember and to "think straight" is little if at all reduced. (Listening to the recordings of my conversation under the influence of the drug, I cannot discover that I was then any stupider than I am at ordinary times.)

Visual impressions are greatly intensified and the eye recovers some of the perceptual innocence of childhood, when the sensum was not immediately and automatically subordinated to the concept. Interest in space is diminished and interest in time falls almost to zero.

Though the intellect remains unimpaired and though perception is enormously improved, the will suffers a profound change for the worse. The mescalin taker sees no reason for doing anything in particular and finds most of the causes for which, at ordinary times, he was prepared to act and suffer, profoundly uninteresting. He can't be bothered with them, for the good reason that he has better things to think about.

These better things may be experienced (as I experienced them) "out there," or "in here," or in both worlds, the inner and the outer, simultaneously or successively. That they are better seems to be selfevident to all mescalin takers who come to the drug with a sound liver and an untroubled mind.

These effects of mescalin are the sort of effects you could expect to follow the administration of a drug having the power to impair the efficiency of the cerebral reducing valve. When the brain runs out of sugar, the undernourished ego grows weak, can't be bothered to undertake the necessary chores, and loses all interest in those spatial and temporal relationships which mean so much to an organism bent on getting on in the world. As Mind at Large seeps past the no longer watertight valve, all kinds of biologically useless things start to happen. In some cases there may be extra-sensory perceptions. Other persons discover a world of visionary beauty. To others again is revealed the glory, the infinite value and meaningfulness of naked existence, of the given, unconceptualized event. In the final stage of egolessness there is an "obscure knowledge" that All is in all - that All is actually each. This is as near, I take it, as a finite mind can ever come to "perceiving everything that is happening everywhere in the universe."

In this context, how significant is the enormous heightening, under mescalin, of the perception of color! For certain animals it is biologically very important to be able to distinguish certain hues. But beyond the limits of their utilitarian spectrum, most creatures are completely color blind. Bees, for example, spend most of their time "deflowering the fresh virgins of the spring"; but, as Von Frisch has shown, they can recognize only a very few colors. Man's highly developed color sense is a biological luxury - inestimably precious to him as an intellectual and spiritual being, but unnecessary to his survival as an animal. To judge by the adjectives which Homer puts into their mouths, the heroes of the Trojan War hardly excelled the bees in their capacity to distinguish colors. In this respect, at least, mankind's advance has been prodigious.

Mescalin raises all colors to a higher power and makes the percipient aware of innumerable fine shades of difference, to which, at ordinary times, he is completely blind. It would seem that, for Mind at Large, the so-called secondary characters of things are primary. Unlike Locke, it evidently feels that colors are more important, better worth attending to, than masses, positions and dimensions. Like mescalin takers, many mystics perceive supernaturally brilliant colors, not only with the inward eye, but even in the objective world around them. Similar reports are made by psychics and sensitives. There are certain mediums to whom the mescalin taker's brief revelation is a matter, during long periods, of daily and hourly experience.

From this long but indispensable excursion into the realm of theory, we may now return to the miraculous facts - four bamboo chair legs in the middle of a room. Like Wordsworth's daffodils, they brought all manner of wealth - the gift, beyond price, of a new direct insight into the very Nature of Things, together with a more modest treasure of understanding in the field, especially, of the arts. A rose is a rose is a rose. But these chair legs were chair legs were St. Michael and all angels. Four or five hours after the event, when the effects of a cerebral sugar shortage were wearing off, I was taken for a little tour of the city, which included a visit, towards sundown, to what is modestly claimed to be the World's Biggest Drug Store. At the back of the W.B.D.S., among the toys, the greeting cards and the comics, stood a row, surprisingly enough, of art books. I picked up the first volume that came to hand. It was on Van Gogh, and the picture at which the book opened was "The Chair" - that astounding portrait of a Ding an Sich, which the mad painter saw, with a kind of adoring terror, and tried to render on his canvas. But it was a task to which the power even of genius proved wholly inadequate. The chair Van Gogh had seen was obviously the same in essence as the chair I had seen. But, though incomparably more real than the chairs of ordinary perception, the chair in his picture remained no more than an unusually expressive symbol of the fact. The fact had been manifested Suchness; this was only an emblem. Such emblems are sources of true knowledge about the Nature of Things, and this true knowledge may serve to prepare the mind which accepts it for immediate insights on its own account. But that is all. However expressive, symbols can never be the things they stand for.

It would be interesting, in this context, to make a study of the works of art available to the great knowers of Suchness. What sort of pictures did Eckhart look at? What sculptures and paintings played a part in the religious experience of St. John of the Cross, of Hakuin, of Hui-neng, of William Law? The questions are beyond my power to answer; but I strongly suspect that most of the great knowers of Suchness paid very little attention to art - some refusing to have anything to do with it at all, others being content with what a critical eye would regard as second-rate, or even, tenth-rate, works. (To a person whose transfigured and transfiguring mind can see the All in every this, the first-rateness or tenthrateness of even a religious painting will be a matter of the most sovereign indifference.) Art, I suppose, is only for beginners, or else for those resolute dead-enders, who have made up their minds to be content with the ersatz of Suchness, with symbols rather than with what they signify, with the elegantly composed recipe in lieu of actual dinner. I returned the Van Gogh to its rack and picked up the volume standing next to it. It was a book on Botticelli. I turned the pages. "The Birth of Venus"-never one of my favorites. "Mars and Venus," that loveliness so passionately denounced by poor Ruskin at the height of his long-drawn sexual tragedy. The marvelously rich and intricate "Calumny of Apelles." And then a somewhat less familiar and not very good picture, "Judith." My attention was arrested and I gazed in fascination, not at the pale neurotic heroine or her attendant, not at the victim's hairy head or the vernal landscape in the background, but at the purplish silk of Judith's pleated bodice and long wind-blown skirts.

This was something I had seen before-seen that very morning, between the flowers and the furniture, when I looked down by chance, and went on passionately staring by choice, at my own crossed legs. Those folds in the trousers - what a labyrinth of endlessly significant complexity! And the texture of the gray flannel - how rich, how deeply, mysteriously sumptuous! And here they were again, in Botticelli's picture.

Civilized human beings wear clothes, therefore there can be no portraiture, no mythological or historical storytelling without representations of folded textiles. But though it may account for the origins, mere tailoring can never explain the luxuriant development of drapery as a major theme of all the plastic arts. Artists, it is obvious, have always loved drapery for its own sake - or, rather, for their own. When you paint or carve drapery, you are painting or carving forms which, for all practical purposes, are nonrepresentational-the kind of unconditioned forms on which artists even in the most naturalistic tradition like to let themselves go. In the average Madonna or Apostle the strictly human, fully representational element accounts for about ten per cent of the whole. All the rest consists of many colored variations on the inexhaustible theme of crumpled wool or linen. And these non-representational nine-tenths of a Madonna or an Apostle may be just as important qualitatively as they are in quantity. Very often they set the tone of the whole work of art, they state the key in which the theme is being rendered, they express the mood, the temperament, the attitude to life of the artist. Stoical serenity reveals itself in the smooth surfaces, the broad untortured folds of Piero's draperies. Torn between fact and wish, between cynicism and idealism, Bernini tempers the all but caricatural verisimilitude of his faces with enormous sartorial abstractions, which are the embodiment, in stone or bronze, of the everlasting commonplaces of rhetoric - the heroism, the holiness, the sublimity to which mankind perpetually aspires, for the most part in vain. And here are El Greco's disquietingly visceral skirts and mantles; here are the sharp, twisting, flame-like folds in which Cosimo Tura clothes his figures: in the first, traditional spirituality breaks down into a nameless physiological yearning; in the second, there writhes an agonized sense of the world's essential strangeness and hostility. Or consider Watteau; his men and women play lutes, get ready for balls and harlequinades, embark, on velvet lawns and under noble trees, for the Cythera of every lover's dream; their enormous melancholy and the flayed, excruciating sensibility of their creator find expression, not in the actions recorded, not in the gestures and the faces portrayed, but in the relief and texture of their taffeta skirts, their satin capes and doublets. Not an inch of smooth surface here, not a moment of peace or confidence, only a silken wilderness of countless tiny pleats and wrinkles, with an incessant modulation - inner uncertainty rendered with the perfect assurance of a master hand - of tone into tone, of one indeterminate color into another. In life, man proposes, God disposes. In the plastic arts the proposing is done by the subject matter; that which disposes is ultimately the artist's temperament, proximately (at least in portraiture, history and genre) the carved or painted drapery.

Between them, these two may decree that a fete galante shall move to tears, that a crucifixion shall be serene to the point of cheerfulness, that a stigmatization shall be almost intolerably sexy, that the likeness of a prodigy of female brainlessness (I am thinking now of Ingres' incomparable Mme. Moitessier) shall express the austerest, the most uncompromising intellectuality.

But this is not the whole story. Draperies, as I had now discovered, are much more than devices for the introduction of non-representational forms into naturalistic paintings and sculptures. What the rest of us see only under the influence of mescalin, the artist is congenitally equipped to see all the time. His perception is not limited to what is biologically or socially useful. A little of the knowledge belonging to Mind at Large oozes past the reducing valve of brain and ego, into his consciousness. It is a knowledge of the intrinsic significance of every existent. For the artist as for the mescalin taker draperies are living hieroglyphs that stand in some peculiarly expressive way for the unfathomable mystery of pure being. More even than the chair, though less perhaps than those wholly supernatural flowers, the folds of my gray flannel trousers were charged with "is-ness." To what they owed this privileged status, I cannot say. Is it, perhaps, because the forms of folded drapery are so strange and dramatic that they catch the eye and in this way force the miraculous fact of sheer existence upon the attention? Who knows? What is important is less the reason for the experience than the experience itself. Poring over Judith's skirts, there in the World's Biggest Drug Store, I knew that Botticelli - and not Botticelli alone, but many others too-had looked at draperies with the same transfigured and transfiguring eyes as had been mine that morning. They had seen the Istigkeit, the Allness and Infinity of folded cloth and had done their best to render it in paint or stone. Necessarily, of course, without success. For the glory and the wonder of pure existence belong to another order, beyond the Power of even the highest art to express. But in Judith's skirt I could clearly see what, if I had been a painter of genius, I might have made of my old gray flannels. Not much, heaven knows, in comparison with the reality, but enough to delight generation after generation of beholders, enough to make them understand at least a little of the true significance of what, in our pathetic imbecility, we call "mere things" and disregard in favor of television.

"This is how one ought to see," I kept saying as I looked down at my trousers, or glanced at the jeweled books in the shelves, at the legs of my infinitely more than Van-Goghian chair. "This is how one ought to see, how things really are." And yet there were reservations. For if one always saw like this, one would never want to do anything else. Just looking, just being the divine Not-self of flower, of book, of chair, of flannel. That would be enough. But in that case what about other people? What about human relations? In the recording of that morning's conversations I find the question constantly repeated, "What about human relations?" How could one reconcile this timeless bliss of seeing as one ought to see with the temporal duties of doing what one ought to do and feeling as one ought to feel? "One ought to be able," I said, "to see these trousers as infinitely important and human beings as still more infinitely important." One ought-but in practice it seemed to be impossible. This participation in the manifest glory of things left no room, so to speak, for the ordinary, the necessary concerns of human existence, above all for concerns involving persons. For Persons are selves and, in one respect at least, I was now a Notself, simultaneously perceiving and being the Not-self of the things around me. To this new-born Notself, the behavior, the appearance, the very thought of the self it had momentarily ceased to be, and of other selves, its one-time fellows, seemed not indeed distasteful (for distastefulness was not one of the categories in terms of which I was thinking), but enormously irrelevant. Compelled by the investigator to analyze and report on what I was doing (and how I longed to be left alone with Eternity in a flower, Infinity in four chair legs and the Absolute in the folds of a pair of flannel trousers!), I realized that I was deliberately avoiding the eyes of those who were with me in the room, deliberately refraining from being too much aware of them. One was my wife, the other a man I respected and greatly liked; but both belonged to the world from which, for the moment, mescalin had delivered me "e world of selves, of time, of moral judgments and utilitarian considerations, the world (and it was this aspect of human life which I wished, above all else, to forget) of self-assertion, of cocksureness, of overvalued words and idolatrously worshiped notions.

At this stage of the proceedings I was handed a large colored reproduction of the well-known selfportrait by C6zanne-the head and shoulders of a man in a large straw hat, red-cheeked, red-lipped, with rich black whiskers and a dark unfriendly eye. It is a magnificent painting; but it was not as a painting that I now saw it. For the head promptly took on a third dimension and came to life as a small goblin-like man looking out through a window in the page before me. I started to laugh. And when they asked me why, "What pretensions!" I kept repeating. "Who on earth does he think he is?" The question was not addressed to Cezanne in particular, but to the human species at large. Who did they all think they were?

"It's like Arnold Bennett in the Dolomites," I said, suddenly remembering a scene, happily immortalized in a snapshot, of A.B., some four or five years before his death, toddling along a wintry road at Cortina d'Ampezzo. Around him lay the virgin snow; in the background was a more than gothic aspiration of red crags. And there was dear, kind, unhappy A.B., consciously overacting the role of his favorite character in fiction, himself, the Card in person. There he went, toddling slowly in the bright Alpine sunshine, his thumbs in the armholes of a yellow waistcoat which bulged, a little lower down, with the graceful curve of a Regency bow window at Brighton - his head thrown back as though to aim some stammered utterance, howitzer-like, at the blue dome of heaven. What he actually said, I have forgotten; but what his whole manner, air and posture fairly shouted was, "I'm as good as those damned mountains." And in some ways, of course, he was infinitely better; but not, as he knew very well, in the way his favorite character in fiction liked to imagine.

Successfully (whatever that may mean) or unsuccessfully, we all overact the part of our favorite character in fiction. And the fact, the almost infinitely unlikely fact, of actually being Cezanne makes no difference. For the consummate painter, with his little pipeline to Mind at Large by-passing the brain valve and ego-filter, was also and just as genuinely this whiskered goblin with the unfriendly eye. For relief I turned back to the folds in my trousers. "This is how one ought to see," I repeated yet again. And I might have added,' 'These are the sort of things one ought to look at." Things without pretensions, satisfied to be merely themselves, sufficient in their Suchness, not acting a part, not trying, insanely, to go it alone, in isolation from the Dharma-Body, in Luciferian defiance of the grace of god.

"The nearest approach to this," I said, "would be a Vermeer."

Yes, a Vermeer. For that mysterious artist was truly gifted-with the vision that perceives the Dharma-Body as the hedge at the bottom of the garden, with the talent to render as much of that vision as the limitations of human capacity permit, and with the prudence to confine himself in his paintings to the more manageable aspects of reality; for though Vermeer represented human beings, he was always a painter of still life. Cezanne, who told his female sitters to do their best to look like apples, tried to paint portraits in the same spirit. But his pippin-like women are more nearly related to Plato's Ideas than to the Dharma-Body in the hedge. They are Eternity and Infinity seen, not in sand or flower, but in the abstractions of some very superior brand of geometry. Vermeer never asked his girls to look like apples. On the contrary, he insisted on their being girls to the very limit - but always with the proviso that they refrain from behaving girlishly. They might sit or quietly stand but never giggle, never display self-consciousness, never say their prayers or pine for absent sweethearts, never gossip, never gaze enviously at other women's babies, never dirt, never love or hate or work. In the act of doing any of these things they would doubtless become more intensely themselves, but would cease, for that very reason, to manifest their divine essential Not-self. In Blake's phrase, the doors of Vermeer's perception were only partially cleansed. A single panel had become almost perfectly transparent; the rest of the door was still muddy. The essential Not-self could be perceived very clearly in things and in living creatures on the hither side of good and evil. In human beings it was visible only when they were in repose, their minds untroubled, their bodies motionless. In these circumstances Vermeer could see Suchness in all its heavenly beauty - could see and, in some small measure, render it-in a subtle and sumptuous still life. Vermeer is undoubtedly the greatest painter of human still lives. But there have been others, for example, Vermeer's French contemporaries, the Le Nain brothers. They set out, I suppose, to be genre painters; but what they actually produced was a series of human still lives, in which their cleansed perception of the infinite significance of all things is rendered not, as with Vermeer, by subtle enrichment of color and texture, but by a heightened clarity, an obsessive distinctness of form, within an austere, almost monochromatic tonality. In our own day we have had Vuillard, the painter, at his best, of unforgettably splendid pictures of the Dharma-Body manifested in a bourgeois bedroom, of the Absolute blazing away in the midst of some stockbroker's family in a suburban garden, taking tea.

Ce qui fait que I'ancien bandagiste renie

Le compioir dont le faste alléchait les passants, C'est son jardin d'Auteuil, ou, veufs de tout encens, Les Zinnias ont I'air d'être en tôle vernie.

For Laurent Tailhade the spectacle was merely obscene. But if the retired rubber goods merchant had sat still enough, Vuillard would have seen in him only the Dharma-Body, would have painted, in the zinnias, the goldfish pool, the villa's Moorish tower and Chinese lanterns, a corner of Eden before the Fall.

But meanwhile my question remained unanswered. How was this cleansed perception to be reconciled with a proper concern with human relations, with the necessary chores and duties, to say nothing of charity and practical compassion? The age-old debate between the actives and the contemplatives was being renewed - renewed, so far as I was concerned, with an unprecedented poignancy. For until this morning I had known contemplation only in its humbler, its more ordinary forms - as discursive thinking; as a rapt absorption in poetry or painting or music; as a patient waiting upon those inspirations, without which even the prosiest writer cannot hope to accomplish anything; as occasional glimpses, in Nature, of Wordsworth's "something far more deeply interfused"; as systematic silence leading, sometimes, to hints of an "obscure knowledge." But now I knew contemplation at its height. At its height, but not yet in its fullness. For in its fullness the way of Mary includes the way of Martha and raises it, so to speak, to its own higher power. Mescalin opens up the way of Mary, but shuts the door on that of Martha. It gives access to contemplation - but to a contemplation that is incompatible with action and even with the will to action, the very thought of action. In the intervals between his revelations the mescalin taker is apt to feel that, though in one way everything is supremely as it should be, in another there is something wrong. His problem is essentially the same as that which confronts the quietist, the arhat and, on another level, the landscape painter and the painter of human still lives. Mescalin can never solve that problem; it can only pose it, apocalyptically, for those to whom it had never before presented itself. The full and final solution can be found only by those who are prepared to implement the right kind of Welranschauung by means of the right kind of behavior and the right kind of constant and unstrained alertness. Over against the quietist stands the active-contemplative, the saint, the man who, in Eckhart's phrase, is ready to come down from the seventh heaven in order to bring a cup of water to his sick brother. Over against the arhat, retreating from ap- pearances into an entirely transcendental Nirvana, stands the Bodhisattva, for whom Suchness and the world of contingencies are one, and for whose boundless compassion every one of those contingencies is an occasion not only for transfiguring insight, but also for the most practical charity. And in the universe of art, over against Vermeer and the other Painters of human still lives, over against the masters of Chinese and Japanese landscape painting, over against Constable and Turner, against Sisley and Seurat and Cezanne, stands the all-inclusive art of Rembrandt. These are enormous names, inaccessible eminences. For myself, on this memorable May morning, I could only be grateful for an experience which had shown me, more clearly than I had ever seen it before, the true nature of the challenge and the completely liberating response.

Let me add, before we leave this subject, that there is no form of contemplation, even the most quietistic, which is without its ethical values. Half at least of all morality is negative and consists in keeping out of mischief. The Lord's Prayer is less than fifty words long, and six of those words are devoted to asking God not to lead us into temptation. The one-sided contemplative leaves undone many things that he ought to do; but to make up for it, he refrains from doing a host of things he ought not to do. The sum of evil, Pascal remarked, would be much diminished if men could only learn to sit quietly in their rooms. The contemplative whose perception has been cleansed does not have to stay in his room. He can go about his business, so completely satisfied to see and be a part of the divine Order of Things that he will never even be tempted to indulge in what Traherne called "the dirty Devices of the world." When we feel ourselves to be sole heirs of the universe, when "the sea flows in our veins ... and the stars are our jewels," when all things are perceived as infinite and holy, what motive can we have for covetousness or self-assertion, for the pursuit of power or the drearier forms of pleasure? Contemplatives are not likely to become gamblers, or procurers, or drunkards; they do not as a rule preach intolerance, or make war; do not find it necessary to rob, swindle or grind the faces of the poor. And to these enormous negative virtues we may add another which, though hard to define, is both positive and important. The arhat and the quietist may not practice contemplation in its fullness; but if they practice it at all, they may bring back enlightening reports of another, a transcendent country of the mind; and if they practice it in the height, they will become conduits through which some beneficent influence can how out of that other country into a world of darkened selves, chronically dying for lack of it.

Meanwhile I had turned, at the investigator's request, from the portrait of Cezanne to what was going on, inside my head, when I shut my eyes. This time, the inscape was curiously unrewarding. The field of vision was filled with brightly colored, constantly changing structures that seemed to be made of plastic or enameled tin.

"Cheap," I commented. "Trivial. Like things in a five-and-ten." And all this shoddiness existed in a closed, cramped universe. "It's as though one were below decks in a ship," I said. "A five-and-ten-cent ship." And as I looked, it became very clear that this five-and-ten-cent ship was in some way connected with human pretensions, with the portrait of Cezanne, with A.B. among the Dolomites overacting his favorite character in fiction. This suffocating interior of a dime-store ship was my own personal self; these gimcrack mobiles of tin and plastic were my personal contributions to the universe. I felt the lesson to be salutary, but was sorry, none the less, that it had had to be administered at this moment and in this form. As a rule the mescalin taker discovers an inner world as manifestly a datum, as self-evidently "infinite and holy," as that transfgured outer world which I had seen with my eyes open. From the first, my own case had been different. Mescalin had endowed me temporarily with the power to see things with my eyes shut; but it could not, or at least on this occasion did not, reveal an inscape remotely comparable to my flowers or chair or flannels "out there." What it had allowed me to perceive inside was not the Dharma-Body, in images, but my own mind; not Suchness, but a set of symbols - in other words, a homemade substitute for Suchness.

Most visualizers are transformed by mescalin into visionaries. Some of them - and they are Perhaps more numerous than is generally supposed - require no transformation; they are visionaries all the time. The mental species to which Blake belonged is fairly widely distributed even in the urban-industrial societies of the present day. The poet-artist's uniqueness does not consist in the fact that (to quote from his Descriptive Catalogue) he actually saw "those wonderful originals called in the Sacred Scriptures the Cherubim." It does not consist in the fact that "these wonderful originals seen in my visions, were some of them one hundred feet in height ... all containing mythological and recondite meaning." It consists solely in his ability to render, in words or (somewhat less successfully) in line and color, some hint at least of a not excessively uncommon experience. The untalented visionary may perceive an inner reality no less tremendous, beautiful and significant than the world beheld by Blake; but he lacks altogether the ability to express, in literary or plastic symbols, what he has seen.

From the records of religion and the surviving menuments of poetry and the plastic arts it is very plain that, at most times and in most places, men have attached more importance to the inscape than to objective existents, have felt that what they saw with their eyes shut possessed a spiritually higher significance than what they saw with their eyes open. The reason? Familiarity breeds contempt, and how to survive is a problem ranging in urgency from the chronically tedious to the excruciating. The outer world is what we wake up to every morning of our lives, is the place where, willy-nilly, we must try to make our living. In the inner world there is neither work nor monotony. We visit it only in dreams and musings, and its strangeness is such that we never find the same world on two successive occasions. What wonder, then, if human beings in their search for the divine have generally preferred to look within! Generally, but not always. In their art no less than in their religion, the Taoists and the Zen Buddhists looked beyond visions to the Void, and through the Void at "the ten thousand things" of objective reality. Because of their doctrine of the Word made flesh, Christians should have been able, from the first, to adopt a similar attitude towards the universe around them. But because of the doctrine of the Fall, they found it very hard to do so. As recently as three hundred years ago an expression of thoroughgoing world denial and even world condemnation was both orthodox and comprehensible. "We should feel wonder at nothing at all in Nature except only the Incarnation of Christ." In the seventeenth century, Lallemant's phrase seemed to make sense. Today it has the ring of madness.

In China the rise of landscape painting to the rank of a major art form took place about a thousand, in Japan about six hundred and in Europe about three hundred, years ago. The equation of DharmaBody with hedge was made by those Zen Masters, who wedded Taoist naturalism with Buddhist transcendentalism. It was, therefore, only in the Far East that landscape painters consciously regarded their art as religious. In the West religious painting was a matter of portraying sacred personages, of illustrating hallowed texts. Landscape painters regarded themselves as secularists. Today we recognize in Seurat one of the supreme masters of what may be called mystical landscape painting. And yet this man who was able, more effectively than any other, to render the One in the many, became quite indignant when somebody praised him for the "poetry" of his work. '1 merely apply the System," he protested. In other words he was merely a pointilliste and, in his own eyes, nothing else. A similar anecdote is told of John Constable. One day towards the end of his life, Blake met Constable at Hampstead and was shown one of the younger artist's sketches. In spite of his contempt for naturalistic art, the old visionary knew a good thing when be saw it-except of course, when it was by Rubens. 'This is not drawing," he cried, "this is inspiration!" "I had meant it to be drawing," was Constable's characteristic answer. Both men were right. It was drawing, precise and veracious, and at the same time it was inspiration - inspiration of an order at least as high as Blake's. The pine trees on the Heath had actually been seen as identical with the Dharma-Body. The sketch was a rendering, necessarily imperfect but still profoundly impressive, of what a cleansed perception had revealed to the open eyes of a great painter. From a contemplation, in the tradition of Wordsworth and Whitman, of the DharmaBody as hedge, and from visions, such as Blake's, of the "wonderful originals" within the mind, contemporary poets have retreated into an investigation of the personal, as opposed to the more than personal, subconscious and to a rendering, in highly abstract terms, not of the given, objective fact, but of mere scientific and theological notions. And something similar has happened in the held of painting, where we have witnessed a general retreat from landscape, the predominant art form of the nineteenth century. This retreat from landscape has not been into that other, inner divine Datum, with which most of the traditional schools of the past were concerned, that Archetypal World, where men have always found the raw materials of myth and religion. No, it has been a retreat from the outward Datum into the personal subconscious, into a mental world more squalid and more tightly closed than even the world of conscious personality. These contraptions of tin and highly colored plastic - where had I seen them before? In every picture gallery that exhibits the latest in nonrepresentational art. And now someone produced a phonograph and put a record on the turntable. I listened with pleasure, but experienced nothing comparable to my seen apocalypses of flowers or flannel. Would a naturally gifted musician hear the revelations which, for me, had been exclusively visual? It would be interesting to make the experiment. Meanwhile, though not transfigured, though retaining its normal quality and intensity, the music contributed not a little to my understanding of what had happened to me and of the wider problems which those happenings had raised.

Instrumental music, oddly enough, left me rather cold. Mozart's C-Minor Piano Concerto was interrupted after the first movement, and a recording of some madrigals by Gesualdo took its place.

"These voices," I said appreciatively, "these voices - they're a kind of bridge back to the human world." And a bridge they remained even while singing the most startlingly chromatic of the mad prince's compositions. Through the uneven phrases of the madrigals, the music pursued its course, never sticking to the same key for two bars together. In Gesualdo, that fantastic character out of a Webster melodrama, psychological disintegration had exaggerated, had pushed to the extreme limit, a tendency inherent in modal as opposed to fully tonal music. The resulting works sounded as though they might have been written by the later Schoenberg.

"And yet," I felt myself constrained to say, as I listened to these strange products of a CounterReformation psychosis working upon a late medieval art form, "and yet it does not matter that he's all in bits. The whole is disorganized. But each individual fragment is in order, is a representative of a Higher Order. The Highest Order prevails even in the disintegration. The totality is present even in the broken pieces. More clearly present, perhaps, than in a completely coherent work. At least you aren't lulled into a sense of false security by some merely human, merely fabricated order. You have to rely on your immediate perception of the ultimate order. So in a certain sense disintegration may have its advantages.

But of course it's dangerous, horribly dangerous. Suppose you couldn't get back, out of the chaos ..." From Gesualdo's madrigals we jumped, across a gulf of three centuries, to Alban Berg and the Lyric Suire. "This" I announced in advance, "is going to be hell."

But, as it turned out, I was wrong. Actually the music sounded rather funny. Dredged up from the personal subconscious, agony succeeded twelve-tone agony; but what struck me was only the essential incongruity between a psychological disintegration even completer than Gesualdo's and the prodigious resources, in talent and technique, employed in its expression.

"Isn't he sorry for himself!" I commented with a derisive lack of sympathy. And then, "Katzenmusik - learned Katzenmusik." And finally, after a few more minutes of the anguish, "Who cares what his feelings are? Why can't he pay attention to something else?" As a criticism of what is undoubtedly a very remarkable work, it was unfair and inadequate - but not, I think, irrelevant. I cite it for what it is worth and because that is how, in a state of pure contemplation, I reacted to the Lyric Suite.

When it was over, the investigator suggested a walk in the garden. I was willing; and though my body seemed to have dissociated itself almost completely from my mind - or, to be more accurate, though my awareness of the transfigured outer world was no longer accompanied by an awareness of my physical organism -I found myself able to get up, open the French window and walk out with only a minimum of hesitation. It was odd, of course, to feel that "I" was not the same as these arms and legs "out there," as this wholly objective trunk and neck and even head. It was odd; but one soon got used to it. And anyhow the body seemed perfectly well able to look after itself. In reality, of course, it always does look after itself. All that the conscious ego can do is to formulate wishes, which are then carried out by forces which it controls very little and understands not at all. When it does anything more -when it tries too hard, for example, when it worries, when it becomes apprehensive about the future -it lowers the effectiveness of those forces and may even cause the devitalized body to fall ill. In my present state, awareness was not referred to as ego; it was, so to speak, on its own. This meant that the physiological intelligence controlling the body was also on its own. For the moment that interfering neurotic who, in waking hours, tries to run the show, was blessedly out of the way.

From the French window I walked out under a kind of pergola covered in part by a climbing rose tree, in part by laths, one inch wide with half an inch of space be tween them. The sun was shining and the shadows of the laths made a zebra-like pattern on the ground and across the seat and back of a garden chair, which was standing at this end of the pergola. That chair -shall I ever forget it? Where the shadows fell on the canvas upholstery, stripes of a deep but glowing indigo alternated with stripes of an incandescence so intensely bright that it was hard to believe that they could be made of anything but blue fire. For what seemed an immensely long time I gazed without knowing, even without wishing to know, what it was that confronted me. At any other time I would have seen a chair barred with alternate light and shade. Today the percept had swallowed up the concept. I was so completely absorbed in looking, so thunderstruck by what I actually saw, that I could not be aware of anything else. Garden furniture, laths, sunlight, shadow - these were no more than names and notions, mere verbalizations, for utilitarian or scientific purposes, after the event. The event was this succession of azure furnace doors separated by gulfs of unfathomable gentian. It was inexpressibly wonderful, wonderful to the point, almost, of being terrifying. And suddenly I had an inkling of what it must feel like to be mad. Schizophrenia has its heavens as well as its hells and purgatories. I remember what an old friend, dead these many years, told me about his mad wife. One day in the early stages of the disease, when she still had her lucid intervals he had gone to talk to her about their children. She listened for a time, then cut him short. How could he bear to waste his time on a couple of absent children, when all that really mattered, here and now, was the unspeakable beauty of the patterns he made, in this brown tweed jacket, every time he moved his arms? Alas, this Paradise of cleansed perception, of pure one-sided contemplation, was not to endure. The blissful intermissions became rarer, became briefer, until finally there were no more of them; there was only horror.

Most takers of mescalin experience only the heavenly part of schizophrenia. The drug brings hell and purgatory only to those who have had a recent case of jaundice, or who suffer from periodical depressions or a chronic anxiety. If, like the other drugs of remotely comparable power, mescalin were notoriously toxic, the taking of it would be enough, of itself, to cause anxiety. But the reasonably healthy person knows in advance that, so far as he is concerned, mescalin is completely innocuous, that its effects will pass off after eight or ten hours, leaving no hangover and consequently no craving for a renewal of the dose. Fortified by this knowledge, he embarks upon the experiment without fear - in other words, without any disposition to convert an unprecedentedly strange and other than human experience into something appalling, something actually diabolical.

Confronted by a chair which looked like the Last Judgment - or, to be more accurate, by a Last Judgment which, after a long time and with considerable difficulty, I recognized as a chair - I found myself all at once on the brink of panic. This, I suddenly felt, was going too far. Too far, even though the going was into intenser beauty, deeper significance. The fear, as I analyze it in retrospect, was of being overwhelmed, of disintegrating under a pressure of reality greater than a mind, accustomed to living most of the time in a cosy world of symbols, could possibly bear. The literature of religious experience abounds in references to the pains and terrors overwhelming those who have come, too suddenly, face to face with some manifestation of the Mysterium tremendum. In theological language, this fear is due to the in- compatibility between man's egotism and the divine purity, between man's self-aggravated separateness and the infinity of God. Following Boehme and William Law, we may say that, by unregenerate souls, the divine Light at its full blaze can be apprehended only as a burning, purgatorial fire. An almost identical doctrine is to be found in The Tibetan Book of the Dead, where the departed soul is described as shrinking in agony from the Pure Light of the Void, and even from the lesser, tempered Lights, in order to rush headlong into the comforting darkness of selfhood as a reborn human being, or even as a beast, an unhappy ghost, a denizen of hell. Anything rather than the burning brightness of unmitigated Reality - anything!

The schizophrenic is a soul not merely unregenerate, but desperately sick into the bargain. His sickness consists in the inability to take refuge from inner and outer reality (as the sane person habitually does) in the homemade universe of common sense - the strictly human world of useful notions, shared symbols and socially acceptable conventions. The schizophrenic is like a man permanently under the influence of mescalin, and therefore unable to shut off the experience of a reality which he is not holy enough to live with, which he cannot explain away because it is the most stubborn of primary facts, and which, because it never permits him to look at the world with merely human eyes, scares him into interpreting its unremitting strangeness, its burning intensity of significance, as the manifestations of human or even cosmic malevolence, calling for the most desperate countermeasures, from murderous violence at one end of the scale to catatonia, or psychological suicide, at the other. And once embarked upon the downward, the infernal road, one would never be able to stop. That, now, was only too obvious.

"If you started in the wrong way," I said in answer to the investigator's questions, "everything that happened would be a proof of the conspiracy against you. It would all be self-validating, You couldn't draw a breath without knowing it was part of the plot." "So you think you know where madness lies?"

My answer was a convinced and heartfelt, "Yes."

"And you couldn't control it?"

"No I couldn't control it. If one began with fear and hate as the major premise, one would have to go on to the conclusion." "Would you be able," my wife asked, "to fix your attention on what The Tibetan Book of The Dead calls the Clear Light?" I was doubtful.

"Would it keep the evil away, if you could hold it? Or would you not be able to hold it?"

I considered the question for some time. "Perhaps," I answered at last, "perhaps I could - but only if there were somebody there to tell me about the Clear Light. One couldn't do it by oneself. That's the point, I suppose, of the Tibetan ritual - someone sitting there all the time and telling you what's what."

After listening to the record of this part of the experiment, I took down my copy of Evans-Wentz's edition of The Tibetan Book of the Dead, and opened at random. "O nobly born, let not thy mind be distracted." That was the problem - to remain undistracted. Undistracted by the memory of past sins, by imagined pleasure, by the bitter aftertaste of old wrongs and humiliations, by all the fears and hates and cravings that ordinarily eclipse the Light. What those Buddhist monks did for the dying and the dead, might not the modern psychiatrist do for the insane? Let there be a voice to assure them, by day and even while they are asleep, that in spite of all the terror, all the bewilderment and confusion, the ultimate Reality remains unshakably itself and is of the same substance as the inner light of even the most cruelly tormented mind. By means of such devices as recorders, clock-controlled switches, public address systems and pillow speakers it should be very easy to keep the inmates of even an understaffed institution constantly reminded of this primordial fact. Perhaps a few of the lost souls might in this way be helped to win some measure of control over the universe - at once beautiful and appalling, but always other than human, always totally incomprehensible - in which they find themselves condemned to live.

None too soon, I was steered away from the disquieting splendors of my garden chair. Drooping in green parabolas from the hedge, the ivy fronds shone with a kind of glassy, jade-like radiance. A moment later a clump of Red Hot Pokers, in full bloom, had exploded into my field of vision. So passionately alive that they seemed to be standing on the very brink of utterance, the flowers strained upwards into the blue. Like the chair under the laths, they protected too much. I looked down at the leaves and discovered a cavernous intricacy of the most delicate green lights and shadows, pulsing with undecipherable mystery.

Roses : The flowers are easy to paint, The leaves difficult.

Shiki's haiku (which I quote in R. H. Blyth's translation) expresses, by indirection, exactly what I then felt - the excessive, the too obvious glory of the flowers, as contrasted with the subtler miracle of their foliage.

We walked out into the street. A large pale blue automobile was standing at the curb. At the sight of it, I was suddenly overcome by enormous merriment. What complacency, what an absurd selfsatisfaction beamed from those bulging surfaces of glossiest enamel! Man had created the thing in his own image - or rather in the image of his favorite character in fiction. I laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks.

We re-entered the house. A meal had been prepared. Somebody, who was not yet identical with myself, fell to with ravenous appetite. From a considerable distance and without much interest, I looked on.

When the meal had been eaten, we got into the car and went for a drive. The effects of the mescalin were already on the decline: but the flowers in the gardens still trembled on the brink of being supernatural, the pepper trees and carobs along the side streets still manifestly belonged to some sacred grove. Eden alternated with Dodona. Yggdrasil with the mystic Rose. And then, abruptly, we were at an intersection, waiting to cross Sunset Boulevard. Before us the cars were rolling by in a steady stream thousands of them, all bright and shiny like an advertiser's dream and each more ludicrous than the last. Once again I was convulsed with laughter. The Red Sea of traffic parted at last, and we crossed into another oasis of trees and lawns and roses. In a few minutes we had climbed to a vantage point in the hills, and there was the city spread out beneath us. Rather disappointingly, it looked very like the city I had seen on other occasions. So far as I was concerned, transfiguration was proportional to distance. The nearer, the more divinely other. This vast, dim panorama was hardly different from itself.

We drove on, and so long as we remained in the hills, with view succeeding distant view, significance was at its everyday level, well below transfiguration point. The magic began to work again only when we turned down into a new suburb and were gliding between two rows of houses. Here, in spite of the peculiar hideousness of the architecture, there were renewals of transcendental otherness, hints of the morning's heaven. Brick chimneys and green composition roofs glowed in the sunshine, like fragments of the New Jerusalem. And all at once I saw what Guardi had seen and (with what incomparable skill) had so often rendered in his paintings- a stucco wall with a shadow slanting across it, blank but unforgettably beautiful, empty but charged with all the meaning and the mystery of existence. The revelation dawned and was gone again within a fraction of a second. The car had moved on; time was uncovering another manifestation of the eternal Suchness. "Within sameness there is difference. But that difference should be different from sameness is in no wise the intention of all the Buddhas. Their intention is both totality and differentiation." This bank of red and white geraniums, for example-it was entirely different from that stucco wall a hundred yards up the road. But the "is-ness" of both was the same, the eternal quality of their transience was the same.

An hour later, with ten more miles and the visit to the World's Biggest Drug Store safely behind us, we were back at home, and I had returned to that reassuring but profoundly unsatisfactory state known as "being in one's right mind." That humanity at large will ever be able to dispense with Artificial Paradises seems very unlikely. Most men and women lead lives at the worst so painful, at the best so monotonous, poor and limited that the urge to escape, the longing to transcend themselves if only for a few moments, is and has always been one of the principal appetites of the soul. Art and religion, carnivals and saturnalia, dancing and listening to oratory -all these have served, in H. G. Wells's phrase, as Doors in the Wall. And for private, far everyday use there have always been chemical intoxicants. All the vegetable sedatives and narcotics, all the euphorics that grow on trees, the hallucinogens that ripen in berries or can be squeezed from roots -all, without exception, have been known and systematically used by human beings from time immemorial. And to these natural modifiers of consciousness modern science has added its quota of synthetics - chloral, for example, and benzedrine, the bromides and the barbiturates.

Most of these modifiers of consciousness cannot now be taken except under doctor's orders, or else illegally and at considerable risk. For unrestricted use the West has permitted only alcohol and tobacco. All the other chemical Doors in the Wall are labeled Dope, and their unauthorized takers are Fiends.

We now spend a good deal more on drink and smoke than we spend on education. This, of course, is not surprising. The urge to escape from selfhood and the environment is in almost everyone almost all the time. The urge to do something for the young is strong only in parents, and in them only for the few years during which their children go to school. Equally unsurprising is the current attitude towards drink and smoke. In spite of the growing army of hopeless alcoholics, in spite of the hundreds of thousands of persons annually maimed or killed by drunken drivers, popular comedians still crack jokes about alcohol and its addicts. And in spite of the evidence linking cigarettes with lung cancer, practically everybody regards tobacco smoking as being hardly less normal and natural than eating. From the point of view of the rationalist utilitarian this may seem odd. For the historian, it is exactly what you would expect. A firm conviction of the material reality of Hell never prevented medieval Christians from doing what their ambition, lust or covetousness suggested. Lung cancer, traffic accidents and the millions of miserable and misery-creating alcoholics are facts even more certain than was, in Dante's day, the fact of the Inferno. But all such facts are remote and unsubstantial compared with the near, felt fact of a craving, here and now, for release or sedation, for a drink or a smoke.

Ours is the age, among other things, of the automobile and of rocketing population. Alcohol is incompatible with safety on the roads, and its production, like that of tobacco, condemns to virtual sterility many millions of acres of the most fertile soil. The problems raised by alcohol and tobacco cannot, it goes without saying, be solved by prohibition. The universal and ever-present urge to selftranscendence is not to be abolished by slamming the currently popular Doors in the Wall. The only reasonable policy is to open other, better doors in the hope of inducing men and women to exchange their old bad habits for new and less harmful ones. Some of these other, better doors will be social and technological in nature, others religious or psychological, others dietetic, educational, athletic. But the need for frequent chemical vacations from intolerable selfhood and repulsive surroundings will undoubtedly remain. What is needed is a new drug which will relieve and console our suffering species without doing more harm in the long run than it does good in the short. Such a drug must be potent in minute doses and synthesizable. If it does not possess these qualities, its production, like that of wine, beer, spirits and tobacco will interfere with the raising of indispensable food and fibers. It must be less toxic than opium or cocaine, less likely to produce undesirable social consequences than alcohol or the barbiturates, less inimical to heart and lungs than the tars and nicotine of cigarettes. And, on the positive side, it should produce changes in consciousness more interesting, more intrinsically valuable than mere sedation or dreaminess, delusions of omnipotence or release from inhibition. To most people, mescalin is almost completely innocuous. Unlike alcohol, it does not drive the taker into the kind of uninhibited action which results in brawls, crimes of violence and traffic accidents. A man under the influence of mescalin quietly minds his own business. Moreover, the business he minds is an experience of the most enlightening kind, which does not have to be paid for (and this is surely important) by a compensatory hangover. Of the long-range consequences of regular mescalin taking we know very little. The Indians who consume peyote buttons do not seem to be physically or morally degraded by the habit. However, the available evidence is still scarce and sketchy.* Although obviously superior to cocaine, opium, alcohol and tobacco, mescalin is not yet the ideal drug. Along with the happily transfigured majority of mescalin takers there is a minority that finds in the drug only hell or purgatory. Moreover, for a drug that is to be used, like alcohol, for general consumption, its effects last for an inconveniently long time. But chemistry and physiology are capable nowadays of practically anything. If the psychologists and sociologists will define the ideal, the neurologists and pharmacologists can be relied upon to discover the means whereby that ideal can be realized or at least (for perhaps this kind of ideal can never, in the very nature of things, be fully realized) more nearly approached than in the wine-bibbing past, the whiskydrinking, marijuana-smoking and barbiturate-swallowing present.

The urge to transcend self-conscious selfhood is, as I have said, a principal appetite of the soul. When, for whatever reason, men and women fail to transcend themselves by means of worship, good works and spiritual exercises, they are apt to resort to religion's chemical surrogates-alcohol and "goof pills" in the modern West, alcohol and opium in the East, hashish in the Mohammedan world, alcohol and marijuana in Central America, alcohol and coca in the Andes, alcohol and the barbiturates in the more up-to-date regions of South America. In Poisons Sacres, Ivresses Divines Philippe de Felice has written at length and with a wealth of documentation on the immemorial connection between religion and the taking of drugs. Here, in summary or in direct quotation, are his conclusions. The employment for religious purposes of toxic substances is "extraordinarily widespread.... The practices studied in this volume can be observed in every region of the earth, among primitives no less than among those who have reached a high pitch of civilization. We are therefore dealing not with exceptional facts, which might justifiably be overlooked, but with a general and, in the widest sense of the word, a human phenomenon, the kind of phenomenon which cannot be disregarded by anyone who is trying to discover what religion is, and what are the deep needs which it must satisfy."

Ideally, everyone should be able to find self-transcendence in some form of pure or applied religion. In practice it seems very unlikely that this hoped for consummation will ever be realized. There are, and doubtless there always will be, good churchmen and good churchwomen for whom, unfortunately, piety is not enough. The late G. K. Chesterton, who wrote at least as lyrically of drink as of devotion, may serve as their eloquent spokesman.

The modern churches, with some exceptions among the Protestant denominations, tolerate alcohol; but even the most tolerant have made no attempt to convert the drug to Christianity, or to sacramentalize its use. The pious drinker is forced to take his religion in one compartment, his religionsurrogate in another. And perhaps this is inevitable. Drinking cannot be sacramentalized except in religions which set no store on decorum. The worship of Dionysos or the Celtic god of beer was a loud and disorderly affair. The rites of Christianity are incompatible with even religious drunkenness. This does no harm to the distillers, but is very bad for Christianity. Countless persons desire selftranscendence and would be glad to find it in church. But, alas, "the hungry sheep look up and are not fed." They take part in rites, they listen to sermons, they repeat prayers; but their thirst remains unassuaged. Disappointed, they turn to the bottle. For a time at least and in a kind of way, it works. Church may still be attended; but it is no more than the Musical Bank of Butler's Erewhon. God may still be acknowledged; but He is God only on the verbal level, only in a strictly Pickwickian sense. The effective object of worship is the bottle and the sole religious experience is that state of uninhibited and belligerent euphoria which follows the ingestion of the third cocktail.

We see, then, that Christianity and alcohol do not and cannot mix. Christianity and mescalin seem to be much more compatible. This has been demonstrated by many tribes of Indians, from Texas to as far north as Wisconsin. Among these tribes are to be found groups affiliated with the Native American Church, a sect whose principal rite is a kind of Early Christian agape, or love feast, where slices of peyote take the place of the sacramental bread and wine. These Native Americans regard the cactus as God's special gift to the Indians, and equate its effects with the workings of the divine Spirit.

Professor J. S. Slotkin, one of the very few white men ever to have participated in the rites of a Peyotist congregation, says of his fellow worshipers that they are "certainly not stupefied or drunk.... They never get out of rhythm or fumble their words, as a drunken or stupefied man would do.... They are all quiet, courteous and considerate of one another. I have never been in any white man's house of worship where there is either so much religious feeling or decorum." And what, we may ask, are these devout and well-behaved Peyotists experiencing? Not the mild sense of virtue which sustains the average Sunday churchgoer through ninety minutes of boredom. Not even those high feelings, inspired by thoughts of the Creator and the Redeemer, the Judge and the Comforter, which animate the pious. For these Native Americans, religious experience is something more direct and illuminating, more spontaneous, less the homemade product of the superficial, self-conscious mind. Sometimes (according to the reports collected by Dr. Slotkin) they see visions, which may be of Christ Himself. Sometimes they hear the voice of the Great Spirit. Sometimes they become aware of the presence of God and of those personal shortcomings which must be corrected if they are to do His will. The practical consequences of these chemical openings of doors into the Other World seem to be wholly good. Dr. Slotkin reports that habitual Peyotists are on the whole more industrious, more temperate (many of them abstain altogether from alcohol), more Peaceable than non-Peyotists. A tree with such satisfactory fruits cannot be condemned out of hand as evil.

In sacramentalizing the use of peyote, the Indians of the Native American Church have done something which is at once psychologically sound and historically respectable. In the early centuries of Christianity many pagan rites and festivals were baptized, so to say, and made to serve the purposes of the Church. These jollifications were not particularly edifying; but they assuaged a certain psychological hunger and, instead of trying to suppress them, the earlier missionaries had the sense to accept them for what they were, soul-satisfying expressions of fundamental urges, and to incorporate them into the fabric of the new religion. What the Native Americans have done is essentially similar. They have taken a pagan custom (a custom, incidentally, far more elevating and enlightening than most of the rather brutish carousals and mummeries adopted from European paganism) and given it a Christian significance.

Though but recently introduced into the northern United States, peyote-eating and the religion based upon it have become important symbols of the red man's right to spiritual independence. Some Indians have reacted to white supremacy by becoming Americanized, others by retreating into traditional Indianism. But some have tried to make the best of both worlds, indeed of all the worlds -the best of Indianism, the best of Christianity, and the best of those Other Worlds of transcendental experience, where the soul knows itself as unconditioned and of like nature with the divine. Hence the Native American Church. In it two great appetites of the soul - the urge to independence and selfdetermination and the urge to self-transcendence - were fused with, and interpreted in the light of, a third - the urge to worship, to justify the ways of God to man, to explain the universe by means of a coherent theology.

Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Clothes him in front, but leaves him bare behind.

But actually it is we, the rich and highly educated whites, who have left ourselves bare behind. We cover our anterior nakedness with some philosophy-Christian, Marxian, Freudo-Physicalist-but abaft we remain uncovered, at the mercy of all the winds of circumstance. The poor Indian, on the other hand, has had the wit to protect his rear by supplementing the fig leaf of a theology with the breechcloth of transcendental experience.

I am not so foolish as to equate what happens under the influence of mescalin or of any other drug, prepared or in the future preparable, with the realization of the end and ultimate purpose of human life: Enlightenment, the Beatific Vision. All I am suggesting is that the mescalin experience is what Catholic theologians call "a gratuitous grace," not necessary to salvation but potentially helpful and to be accepted thankfully, if made available. To be shaken out of the ruts of ordinary perception, to be shown for a few timeless hours the outer and the inner world, not as they appear to an animal obsessed with survival or to a human being obsessed with words and notions, but as they are apprehended, directly and unconditionally, by Mind at Large - this is an experience of inestimable value to everyone and especially to the intellectual. For the intellectual is by definition the man for whom, in Goethe's phrase, "the word is essentially fruitful." He is the man who feels that "what we perceive by the eye is foreign to us as such and need not impress us deeply." And yet, though himself an intellectual and one of the supreme masters of language, Goethe did not always agree with his own evaluation of the word. "We talk," he wrote in middle life, "far too much. We should talk less and draw more. I personally should like to renounce speech altogether and, like organic Nature, communicate everything I have to say in sketches. That fig tree, this little snake, the cocoon on my window sill quietly awaiting its future - all these are momentous signatures. A person able to decipher their meaning properly would soon be able to dispense with the written or the spoken word altogether. The more I think of it, there is something futile, mediocre, even (I am tempted to say) foppish about speech. By contrast, how the gravity of Nature and her silence startle you, when you stand face to face with her, undistracted, before a barren ridge or in the desolation of the ancient hills." We can never dispense with language and the other symbol systems; for it is by means of them, and only by their means, that we have raised ourselves above the brutes, to the level of human beings. But we can easily become the victims as well as the beneficiaries of these systems. We must learn how to handle words effectively; but at the same time we must preserve and, if necessary, intensify our ability to look at the world directly and not through that half opaque medium of concepts, which distorts every given fact into the all too familiar likeness of some generic label or explanatory abstraction.

Literary or scientific, liberal or specialist, all our education is predominantly verbal and therefore fails to accomplish what it is supposed to do. Instead of transforming children into fully developed adults, it turns out students of the natural sciences who are completely unaware of Nature as the primary fact of experience, it inflicts upon the world students of the humanities who know nothing of humanity, their own or anyone else's.

Gestalt psychologists, such as Samuel Renshaw, have devised methods for widening the range and increasing the acuity of human perceptions. But do our educators apply them? The answer is, No.

Teachers in every field of psyche-physical skill, from seeing to tennis, from tightrope walking to prayer, have discovered, by trial and error, the conditions of optimum functioning within their special fields. But have any of the great Foundations financed a project for co-ordinating these empirical findings into a general theory and practice of heightened creativeness? Again, so far as I am aware, the answer is, No.

All sorts of cultists and queer fish teach all kinds of techniques for achieving health, contentment, peace of mind; and for many of their hearers many of these techniques are demonstrably effective. But do we see respectable psychologists, philosophers and clergymen boldly descending into those odd and sometimes malodorous wells, at the bottom of which poor Truth is so often condemned to sit? Yet once more the answer is, No.

And now look at the history of mescalin research. Seventy years ago men of first-rate ability described the transcendental experiences which come to those who, in good health, under proper conditions and in the right spirit, take the drug. How many philosophers, how many theologians, how many professional educators have had the curiosity to open this Door in the Wall? The answer, for all practical purposes, is, None.

In a world where education is predominantly verbal, highly educated people find it all but impossible to pay serious attention to anything but words and notions. There is always money for, there are always doctorates in, the learned foolery of research into what, for scholars, is the all-important problem: Who influenced whom to say what when? Even in this age of technology the verbal humanities are honored. The non-verbal humanities, the arts of being directly aware of the given facts of our existence, ale almost completely ignored. A catalogue, a bibliography, a definitive edition of a third-rate versier's ipsissima verba, a stupendous index to end all indexes - any genuinely Alexandrian project is sure of approval and financial support: But when it comes to finding out how you and I, our children and grandchildren, may become more perceptive, more intensely aware of inward and outward reality, more open to the Spirit, less apt, by psychological malpractices, to make ourselves physically ill, and more capable of controlling our own autonomic nervous system - when it comes to any form of non-verbal education more fundamental (and more likely to be of some practical use) than Swedish drill, no really respectable person in any really respectable university or church will do anything about it. Verbalists are suspicious of the non-verbal; rationalists fear the given, non-rational fact; intellectuals feel that "what we perceive by the eye (or in any other way) is foreign to us as such and need not impress us deeply." Besides, this matter of education in the non-verbal humanities will not fit into any of the established pigeonholes. It is not religion, not neurology, not gymnastics, not morality or civics, not even experimental psychology. This being so the subject is, for academic and ecclesiastical purposes, non-existent and may safely be ignored altogether or left, with a Patronizing smile, to those whom the Pharisees of verbal orthodoxy call cranks, quacks, charlatans and unqualified amateurs. "I have always found," Blake wrote rather bitterly, "that Angels have the vanity to speak of themselves as the only wise. This they do with a confident insolence sprouting from systematic reasoning." Systematic reasoning is something we could not, as a species or as individuals, possibly do without. But neither, if we are to remain sane, can we possibly do without direct perception, the more unsystematic the better, of the inner and outer worlds into which we have been born. This given reality is an infinite which passes all understanding and yet admits of being directly and in some sort totally apprehended. It is a transcendence belonging to another order than the human, and yet it may be present to us as a felt immanence, an experienced participation. To be enlightened is to be aware, always, of total reality in its immanent otherness - to be aware of it and yet to remain in a condition to survive as an animal, to think and feel as a human being, to resort whenever expedient to systematic reasoning. Our goal is to discover that we have always been where we ought to be. Unhappily we make the task exceedingly difficult for ourselves. Meanwhile, however, there are gratuitous graces in the form of partial and fleeting realizations. Under a more realistic, a less exclusively verbal system of education than ours, every Angel (in Blake's sense of that word) would be permitted as a sabbatical treat, would be urged and even, if necessary, compelled to take an occasional trip through some chemical Door in the Wall into the world of transcendental experience. If it terrified him, it would be unfortunate but probably salutary. If it brought him a brief but timeless illumination, so much the better. In either case the Angel might lose a little of the confident insolence sprouting from systematic reasoning and the consciousness of having read all the books.

Near the end of his life Aquinas experienced Infused Contemplation. Thereafter he refused to go back to work on his unfinished book. Compared with this, everything he had read and argued about and written - Aristotle and the Sentences, the Questions, the Propositions, the majestic Summas-was no better than chaff or straw, For most intellectuals such a sit-down strike would be inadvisable, even morally wrong. But the Angelic Doctor had done more systematic reasoning than any twelve ordinary Angels, and was already ripe for death. He had earned the right, in those last months of his mortality, to turn away from merely symbolic straw and chaff to the bread of actual and substantial Fact. For Angels of a lower order and with better prospects of longevity, there must be a return to the straw. But the man who comes back through the Door in the Wall will never be quite the same as the man who went out. He will be wiser but less cocksure, happier but less self-satisfied, humbler in acknowledging his ignorance yet better equipped to understand the relationship of words to things, of systematic reasoning to the unfathomable Mystery which it tries, forever vainly, to comprehend.

[1] Huxley, Aldous (1954) The Doors of Perception, Chatto and Windus, p. 15

[2] "If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.” William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

[3] Lower Pecos and Coahuila peyote: new radiocarbon dates. Terry M, Steelman KL, Guilderson T, Dering P, Rowe MW. J Archaeological Science. 2006;33:1017–1021.

[4] About Dr. Arthur Heffter Archived 18 September 2010 at the Wayback Machine Hefter Research Institute Site

[5] Powell, Simon G Mescaline, An Overview Archived 5 December 2010 at the Wayback Machine

[6] Grob, Charles S. Psychiatric Research with Hallucinogens: What have we learned? | The Psychotomimetic Model Yearbook for Ethnomedicine and the Study of Consciousness, Issue 3, 1994

[7] Jay, Mike (2010) High Society: The Central Role of Mind-Altering Drugs in History, Science, and Culture p. 103 Park Street Press, ISBN 1-59477-393-9

[8] "American National Biography Online: Burroughs, William S." www.anb.org. Retrieved 25 October 2016.

[9] "Jack Kerouac". www.poetryfoundation.org. Retrieved 25 October 2016.

[10] "Allen Ginsberg". www.poetryfoundation.org. Retrieved 25 October 2016.

[11] "Beat Art - the-artists.org". the-artists.org. Retrieved 25 October 2016.

[12] Letter to T.S. Eliot, 8 July 1936; Smith, Letters of Aldous Huxley, pp. 405–6

[13] Dunaway, David King, p. 133

[14] Woodcock, George (1972) Dawn and the Darkest Hour: A study of Aldous Huxley, p. 274, Faber & Faber, ISBN 0-571-08939-9

[15] "smythies". www.hofmann.org. Retrieved 17 May 2016.

[16] Bedford, Sybille (1974) Aldous Huxley: A Biography, Volume Two: 1939–1963 p. 144, Chatto & Windus, ISBN 0-00-216006-4

[17] Huxley, Aldous (1952), The Devils of Loudun, Chatto & Windus

[18] Woodcock (1972) p. 275

[Bedford_1974,_p._144-19] Jump up to:^a ^b Bedford (1974) p. 144

[20] Woodcock (1972) p. 274

[Bedford_1974,_p._142-21] Jump up to:^a ^b Bedford (1974) p. 142

[22] Murray, Nicholas (2003) Aldous Huxley, p. 399, Abacus ISBN 0-349-11348-3

[23] Bedford(1974) p. 145

[24] Murray (2003) p. 399

[25] Bedford (1974) p. 145

[26] Peggy Kiskadden in Dunaway, David King (1998) Aldous Huxley recollected: an oral history, p. 97 Rowman Altamira ISBN 0-7619-9065-8

[27] Dunaway, David King (1989), pp. 228–300

[28] Bedford (1974) p. 163

[Murray_2003,_p._401-29] Jump up to:^a ^b ^c Murray (2003) p. 401

[30] Morris Eaves; Robert N. Essick; Joseph Viscomi (eds.). "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, object 14 (Bentley 14, Erdman 14, Keynes 14)". William Blake Archive. Retrieved 10 June 2014.

[31] Bedford (1974) p. 146

[32] Murray (2003) p. 400

[33] Blake, William (1790) The Marriage of Heaven and Hell Plate 14

[34] Huxley, Aldous (1990) The Perennial Philosophy, pp. 107, 189, Perennial, ISBN 0-06-090191-8

[35] . Williams, Nicholas (1 April 2009). "'The Sciences of Life': Living Form in William Blake and Aldous Huxley". Romanticism. 15 (1): 41–53. doi:10.3366/E1354991X09000506. ISSN 1354-991X.

[36] Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 283

[37] Huxley (1954) p. 11

[38] Huxley (1954) p. 15

[39] Huxley (1954) pp. 16–7

[40] Huxley (1954) p. 19

[41] Huxley (1954) pp. 21–25

[42] Huxley (1954) p. 27

[43] Huxley (1954) pp. 29–33

[44] Huxley (1954) p. 33

[45] Huxley (1954) pp. 39–40

[46] Huxley (1954) pp. 41–46

[47] Huxley (1954) p. 48

[48] Huxley (1954) p. 49

[49] Huxley (1954) pp. 55–58

[50] Huxley (1954) p. 63

[51] LaBarre, Weston "Twenty Years of Peyote Studies", Current Anthropology, Vol. 1, No. 1, (Jan. 1960) pp. 45–60

[52] Huxley, Aldous (1954) Dust Jacket

[53] Watt, Conrad (1997) Aldous Huxley, pp. 394–395 Routledge ISBN 0-415-15915-6

[54] Bedford (1974) p. 155

[55] Bedford, Sybille (1974) p. 156

[56] Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 297

[57] Sargant, William "Chemical Mysticism", British Medical Journal, Vol. 1, No. 4869 (1 May 1954), p. 1024

[58] Roland Fisher, quoted in Louis Cholden, ed. Lysergic Acid Diethylamide and Mescaline in Experimental Psychiatry, p. 67, Grune and Stratton, 1956

[59] Meerloo, Joost A.M. Medication into Submission: The Danger of Therapeutic Coercion, Journal of Nervous and Mental Diseases, 1955, 122: 353–360

[60] Novak, Steven J. LSD before Leary: Sidney Cohen's Critique of 1950s Psychedelic Drug Research, Isis, Vol. 88, No. 1 (Mar. 1997), pp. 87–110

[61] Novak, Steven J. (1997)

[62] Buber, Martin (1965) The Knowledge of Man: Selected Essays ed Maurice S. Friedman, Harper & Row

[63] Richards, William A. "Entheogens in the Study of Religious Experiences: Current Status", Journal of Religion and Health, Vol. 44, No. 4 (Winter, 2005), pp. 377–389

[64] Zaehner, RC (1957) Mysticism Sacred and Profane, Clarendon Press, p. 3

[Zaehner_p._25-65] Jump up to:^a ^b Zaehner p. 25

[66] Zaehner p. 3

[67] Huxley, Aldous (1955), The Doors of Perception, p. 49

[68] Zaehner p. 18

[69] Zaehner, p. 26

[70] Zaehner p. 19

[71] Zaehner, Introduction p.xi

[72] Zaehner p. 28

[73] Murray (2003) p. 403

[74] Huxley, Aldous, Eds. Horowitz, Michael and Palmer, Cynthia Moksha: Aldous Huxley's Classic Writings on Psychedelics and the Visionary Experience, p. 214. Park Street Press, ISBN 0-89281-758-5

[Huston_Smith_1964-75] Jump up to:^a ^b ^c Huston Smith (1964) Do Drugs Have Religious Import? The Journal of Philosophy, 61, 18

[76] Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 300

[77] Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 327

[78] Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 298

[79] Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 330

[80] Dunaway, David King (1989) p. 369

[81] Thody, Philip (1973) Aldous Huxley Leaders of Modern Thought, Studio Vista, ISBN 0-289-70189-9

[Stevens,_Jay_1998-82] Jump up to:^a ^b Stevens, Jay (1998) Storming Heaven: LSD and the American Dream, pp. 56–57, Grove Press, ISBN 0-8021-3587-0

[83] Letter to Humphry Osmond, 24 October 1955. in Achera Huxley, Laura (1969) This Timeless Moment. p. 139, Chatto & Windus

[84] Achera Huxley, p. 146

[85] Leary, Timothy (1968) High Priest, New World Publishing

[86] Richard, William A. "Entheogens in the Study of Religious Experiences: Current Status", Journal of Religion and Health, Vol. 44, No. 4 (Winter, 2005), pp. 377–389

[87] Pollan, Michael (24 December 2018). "How Does a Writer Put a Drug Trip into Words?". The New York Times. ISSN 0362-4331. Retrieved 4 April 2019.

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[89] Blake, William (1790). The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.

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2022/07/02

The Doors of Perception - Wikipedia인식의 문

The Doors of Perception

Contents

Background[edit]

Mescaline (peyote and San Pedro cactus)[edit]

Research by Humphry Osmond[edit]

Huxley's experience with mescaline[edit]

Day of the experiment[edit]

Compilation of the book[edit]

Synopsis[edit]

Reception[edit]

Literature[edit]

Psychiatry[edit]

Philosophy and religion[edit]

Martin Buber[edit]

Robert Charles Zaehner[edit]

Huston Smith[edit]

Later experience[edit]

Influence[edit]

William Blake[edit]

Cultural references[edit]

Publication history[edit]

See also[edit]

References[edit]

External links[edit]

From the United States

The Doors of Perception: What did Huxley see in mescaline?