Curious.
I had no expectations when I started this book, having not heard of it or the author before. After a few pages, I was a little worried it would turn into some old guys condescending view of the hippies written at the very moment when hippies were starting to become big cultural stars. The book is written as a series of journal entries composed by Gloria (who renames herself Witch in the course of the story) and the language is so earnest, Gloria and her friend, the awkward gay teen boy John (who renames himself Roy), are, at first, so naive, so earnest, so quick to affirm each other that it seems like a set up: as though the author is, with us, winking at their silliness.
But Herlihy takes a more difficult path. He explores the characters, unfolding their layers, sending them out into a world that is both dangerous _and_ accepting. Witch and Roy run away from their suburban Detroit homes and end up in New York where, after some hard encounters, they find a soft place to land: a communal home supported by a rich psychoanalyst who is also turned on--in one of the book's recurrent phrases, meaning hip to the New Age ideas espoused by the hippies. He is married, but the couple is also sleeping with another of the women in the house. They all smoke pot and drop acid--but nothing harder. They worry about how to make rules in their future utopia--a place that should be free from rules, and also are anxious about how to live now. What to do when one of their housemates turns out to be a speed freak and dealer? Throw him out? Love him anyway?
That worry is part of the reason that the book works: the characters are not stock hippies, but engaged, thinking, feeling, changing people. The other reason--the biggest reason--is that Witch's voice rings so true. She can be ironic, ruthlessly dissecting her own motivations, as well as those of others around her, always on the hunt for hypocrisy--but then, having identified it, looking for ways past it.
She's also on a dangerous quest. She's looking for the father who abandoned her, and, to her mind represents her true lineage: her mother married wealthy and has given herself to the plastic culture of twentieth-century America. Her father is a communist professor in New York. He can be a bit of a stereotype in the story, an old guard communist confused by the new peace-and-love generation, but he does try, and he provides some comic relief. Once she finds him, Witch's quest becomes even more dangerous: she plans to sleep with him.
The future, she imagines on an acid trip, will be bright and perfect. But it isn't. Rather than sleep with her father, she confesses their blood relations, which understandably sends him for a loop. She returns to her mother, and the conclusion of their relationship is simple, stark, and has none of the book's earlier sentimentality: they decide to give up on one another.
The book itself is probably a little too long, but Witch's voice is so assured that it's not much of an issue. She's a developing writer, and the book shows the growing confidence and skill in her craft. At the same time, like so many other 20th-century novels, Season of the Witch becomes a book about the act of writing, and whether it amounts to anything, especially compared to the actual living of life, and experiencing of its highs--both chemically-induced and otherwise.