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The Doors of Perception
Aldous Huxley
What happens when an intellectual samples mescaline, the psychoactive component of peyote? In addition to inspiring the name for Jim Morrison's band, this famous essay (itself titled after a line from William Blake) provides the reader with some provocative thoughts about religion, perception, and, well, drug usage. Under the pretense of gaining insight into scizophrenia, one morning in May of 1953 Aldous Huxley took a dose of mescaline and recorded his observations.
   Promptly projected into a serene world of contemplation, Huxley was disappointed to find that he did not have fabulous hallucinations, but instead the real world became much more real and alive. He finally understood a Zen koan that had previously seemed nonsensical, and delighted in the beauty of commonplace objects.
   Fortunately for the reader, Huxley waited until he was sober to set down his ideas, aided by an audio recording of his observations made by a non-participating companion (whose own take on the scene is notably absent). He is reminded of the distinction between the contemplative and active personalities. Is it best to meditate on theology and make the achievement of purity one's primary duty, or should one concentrate more on meeting the needs of the world outside (cf. James 4:17)? Huxley says the drug made him supremely indifferent to worldly cares, but at the same time he was strongly aware of the inadequacy of this perspective. He concludes that an occasional chemically-aided Beatific Vision can help the seeker find the priorities needed for better living. It isn't stated, however, if Huxley became a regular user of mescaline, or if he subscribed to the adage "Once a philosopher, twice a drug fiend."
~16,000 words
Link courtesy of David C. Oshel.
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From the records of religion and the surviving monuments 
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.
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18 August 1997 back to text 1