At its simplest, shaman Leary's collected lectures, interviews, articles hypothecating his nirvana in a nutshell. There are tributes to his unsteady supporters--Alan Watts, Alien Ginsberg, Aldous Huxley, et al. . . . rebuttals which appeared in Esquire and Playboy; and many, many injunctions and incantations dealing with the drug he mid-wived at Harvard, in Mexico, and at Millbrook: ""Drugs are the religion of the twenty-first century"" and LSD can be the equivalent of organ music and incense in achieving that religious high: the fifth freedom is the right to get high; ""the whiskey-drinking menopausal imprison the pot-smoking youth""; etc., etc. Most of the time, however, Leary is far less intelligible and he runs off at the mouth in drivulets of prose--ibid: ""You are capitulated into the matrix of quadrillions of cells and somatic communication systems. Cellular flow. . . . Strange, undulating tissue patterns. Pummeled down the fantastic artistry of internal factories. . . ."" Quadrillions of words--the same words--whereas only one of his will serve very well. ""Stupefacient.