This Is Your Mind on Plants

by Michael Pollan

rereading Huxley after having had those experiences, I could appreciate how distinct mescaline was from the other psychedelics. Huxley didn’t describe leaving the known universe, journeying to a “Beyond” populated by strange characters or decorated with extraordinary visual patterns; indeed, he reported no hallucinations. He didn’t travel inward to plumb the depths of his psyche or to recover suppressed memories. Nor did his ego dissolve, allowing him to merge with the universe or god or nature. He didn’t report the (classic) psychedelic epiphany that love is the most important thing in the universe. No, Huxley remained very much on this earth, sitting in his Los Angeles garden, observing the familiar physical world—but through completely new eyes: “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.”