Psychedelic Psychiatry - LSD From Clinic To Campus

VISIT…
Psychedelic Psychiatry
This page intentionally left blank
LSD from Clinic to Campus
erika dyck
The Johns Hopkins University Press

Baltimore
© 2008 The Johns Hopkins University Press
All rights reserved. Published 2008
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1
The Johns Hopkins University Press

2715 North Charles Street
Baltimore, Maryland 21218-4363
www.press.jhu.edu
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dyck, Erika.
Psychedelic psychiatry : LSD from clinic to campus / Erika Dyck.
p. ; cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN-13: 978- 0- 8018- 8994-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 0- 8018- 8994-4 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. LSD (Drug)–Therapeutic use—History. I. Title.
[DNLM: 1. Lysergic Acid Diethylamide—history. 2. History, 20th
Century. 3. Lysergic Acid Diethylamide—therapeutic use.
QV 11.1 D994p 2008]
RC 483.5.L9D93 2008
616.89'18—dc22 2007049668
A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.
Special discounts are available for bulk purchases of this book. For more
information, please contact Special Sales at 410- 516- 6936 or
specialsales@press.jhu.edu.
The Johns Hopkins University Press uses environmentally friendly

book materials, including recycled text paper that is composed of at
least 30 percent post- consumer waste, whenever possible. All of our
book papers are acid-free, and our jackets and covers are printed on
paper with recycled content.
contents
Preface vii
Acknowledgments xi
Introduction 1
1. Psychedelic Pioneers 13
2. Simulating Psychoses 32
3. Highs and Lows 53
4. Keeping Tabs on Science and Spirituality 79
5. Acid Panic 101
6. “The Perfect Contraband” 119
Conclusion 138
Notes 145
Bibliography 171
Index 193
preface
Since I began studying the history of LSD (d-lysergic acid diethylamide) I have
often been struck by people’s reactions to my work. Some have asked me
whether LSD is the drug that causes brain damage. Others have heard that it
permanently alters chromosomes or that traces of the drug remain in the body
forever, causing horrific flashbacks and making even one-time users into prime
targets for failed drug tests. Many people’s perceptions of LSD are intimately
linked with danger. People will casually say that they like to smoke marijuana
once in a while or that they would consider taking ecstasy, but they would never
try LSD. Some people have told me stories of someone who knew of someone
who was permanently “damaged” after taking LSD, though few people have
ever met such individuals. I remember hearing similar stories from my own
friends while growing up, like the one about the guy someone knew who took
too much LSD and believed he had been turned into an orange. He allegedly
spent his days sitting alone fearing that someone was going to peel him. People
who feel that the drug is dangerous usually assume that my investigations into
the history of LSD will prove them right.
There are a lot of other people who take a different view. When I give presen-
tations on the subject, invariably somebody approaches me afterward to tell me
a story about one of his or her experiences with LSD. These people are, for ex-
ample, professors, students, medical professionals, and psychologists. They all
appear to be healthy, rational, and well adjusted. Sometimes they want to tell me
about an amazing concert they attended while on acid, but then ask me whether
they may have put themselves at risk of long-term effects. Others reminisce
fondly about their experiences with the drug and believe that it had a very posi-
tive effect on their lives. Most of the people who make these confessions assure
me that LSD changed them, that it was different from other drugs, and that the
experience remains largely indescribable.
viii Preface
I am almost always asked about my own experiences with the drug. I sup-
pose people think that only somebody who has tried LSD could have developed
such an interest in the topic. Alternatively, they assume that somebody who
spent years studying the history of the drug must have generated an over-
whelming appetite for it. A lot of people ask me where they can get some. I do
not know.
When I began my research into the history of LSD as a graduate student, I
expected to uncover horror stories about irresponsible research experiments,
addictions, and ruined lives. There is no doubt that some LSD consumption has
had negative consequences and that some unethical experimentation with
psychedelic drugs took place in clinical settings. But what I have since learned
is that this is not, by any means, the whole story. I had the opportunity to closely
examine the records of a large set of experiments conducted in Canada in the
1950s. I was surprised to learn that the psychiatrists involved in these experi-
ments went to extraordinary lengths to study the drug before giving it to pa-
tients and even tested it on themselves first. There is no question that the
patients volunteered for LSD treatments.
Although I had access to patients’ files from these early experiments, research
ethics agreements stipulated that I could not contact any of the people named in
these files, nor could I include their names in any publications. However, word
spread about my investigation and former patients began to contact me them-
selves. This very small number of individuals who had been treated with LSD
forty years earlier added a crucial perspective to my study. When we think about
taking LSD as a treatment we may think about it as being a very risky endeavor.
These people explained to me some of the circumstances that led to their partici-
pation in the trials as alcoholics. Alcoholism had affected their families, jobs,
and bodies, their whole lives, so profoundly that they were prepared to try any-
thing to find a solution. One former patient explained that he would have walked
through fire if he thought it would help him stop drinking. They all remained
loyal to the psychiatrists who gave them LSD. Of course, I was not in a position
to follow up with all the patients who had been treated in this way. The testimo-
nies I did manage to collect, though not necessarily representative, contribute an
important perspective that is not found in the textual records.
In addition to the patients who took LSD, I also heard from former graduate
students, nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, and architects who were involved
in the experiments. Many recounted stories about taking LSD with various ca-
veats or claims ranging from But I only took it once, to try and understand what
my patients/subjects might expect to The stuff is harmless. . . . I probably took it a
Preface ix
hundred times, the first summer. Many of these people were octogenarians when
I met them, which should call into question concerns about the long-term
effects of the drug.
How should we reconcile these findings with the connection that continues
to exist in the public mind between LSD and danger? This book is the result of
my quest to understand this dichotomy.
acknowledgments
I am indebted to many people for financial, material, and emotional support

during this project; all of its weaknesses, of course, are mine alone. Friends and
colleagues Larry Stewart, Valerie Korinek, Cyril Greenland, Cara Pryor, Jenni-
fer Milne, Jason Kleinermanns, Nadine Charabin, Steve Hewitt, and Tristan
Fehrenbach were there from the very beginning. David Wright, Ken Cruik-
shank, Stephen Heathorn, Marcel Martel, Dick Rempel, Stephen Streeter, and
all the members of the History Department at McMaster University helped me
transform a mere germ of an idea into the premise for a book. The encourage-
ment and support from the Johns Hopkins University Press eased the transi-
tion of this project into its current form, and I’m especially grateful to my
editor, Jackie Wehmueller, for her unwavering support, and to the copy editor,
Anne R. Gibbons, for her careful review.
Arriving at the University of Alberta in 2005, I was welcomed by a wonder-
ful community of scholars who have become mentors and friends: Susan Smith,
Pat Prestwich, Lesley Cormack, Beverly Lemire, Dawna Gilchrist, David Cook,
Cressida Heyes, Rob Wilson, and Sarah Carter. I have drawn strength and in-
spiration from an exceptionally talented and generous group of friends: Angela
Graham, Jessa Chupik, Greg Stott, Carrie Dickenson, Jennifer Keelan, Charles
Barbour, Mike Haan, Sean Gouglas, Chris Fletcher, Biella Coleman, Kathleen
Lowrey, Jonathan Reinarz, and Patrick Barber.
Members of the history of medicine community in Canada, the United
States, and the United Kingdom have offered feedback and direction while
patiently listening to excerpts from this project as it has developed over the
years; many sections of this book have benefited directly from the comments
generated at these meetings. The Canadian Society for the History of Medi-
cine, the American Association for the History of Medicine, and the Society
xii Acknowledgments
for the Social History of Alcohol and Drugs have offered especially rich op-
portunities for me to meet with scholars who share my academic love of his-
tory, medicine, and drugs. Jackie Duffin, David Courtwright, John Burnham,
Shelley McKellar, Geoffrey Reaume, Michael Sappol, Sasha Mullally, James
Moran, James Hanley, Matthew Gambino, Robin Room, Dan Malleck, and
Catherine Carstairs provided invaluable comments. Geoff Hudson, Peter
Twohig, and Maureen Lux, in addition to providing enormous academic sup-
port, helped me to pause and celebrate.
No historical examination could proceed without the help and expertise of
archivists. In this regard I was most fortunate. John Court at the Centre for Ad-
diction and Mental Health Archives, Patrick Hayes at the University of Sas-
katchewan Archives, Kam Teo at the Weyburn Public Library, and Jackie Malloy
at the Soo Line Museum in Weyburn tracked down innumerable requests for
me. I logged many hours in the Hoffer collection at the Saskatchewan Archives
Board, where I am tremendously grateful for the archival expertise of Nadine
Charabin and Christie Wood, Wanda Jack, Bonnie Wagner, and others for pho-
tocopying box after box of documents.
In addition to archival records, I am grateful to everyone who shared their
memories with me; this book is better as a result of their candid reflections.
John Mills, Arthur Allen, Duncan and June Blewett, Ian MacDonald, Neil Ag-
new, Robert Sommer, Allen Blakeney, Frank Coburn, Joyce Munn, Sven Jensen,
Terry Russell, Amy Izumi, and others who know who they are. I am especially
indebted to Abram Hoffer who gave me permission to examine his extensive
collection of papers in Saskatoon, who always provided further detail upon re-
quest, but who never interfered in my interpretation of his work.
Ryan Lockwood and Anand Ramyya made a film called The Psychedelic Pio-
neers from which I learned about presenting history in a different medium.
That project introduced me to some of the real benefits of interprofessional col-
laboration, and my book is better for this experience. The Social Sciences and
Humanities Research Council and McMaster University funded my work as a
dissertation; Associated Medical Ser vices and the University of Alberta have
provided me with funding that has allowed me to concentrate on completing
this manuscript while establishing a history of medicine program in the facul-
ties of medicine and dentistry, and arts.
Earlier versions of chapters 1 and 3 were previously published, and I thank
the editors of the respective journals for their permission to reuse this material:
“Land of the Living Sky with Diamonds: A Place for Radical Psychiatry?” Jour-
Acknowledgments xiii
nal of Canadian Studies 41, no. 3 (2007): 42–66 (chapter 1); “Hitting Highs at
Rock Bottom: LSD Treatment of Alcoholism, 1950–1970.” Social History of Med-
icine 19, no. 2 (2006): 313–29 (chapter 3).
Finally, the support offered by my family and friends has been tremendous.
Susan, Alana, Noel, Vered, Ian, Sherry, Alicia, David, Erna, and the myriad soc-
cer teams who have added me to their rosters over the years have sustained me
through this process. My parents, Penny and Philip, courageously looked the
other way when I moved to Toronto, then to Alberta, but have been wonderfully
supportive of me, always. Finally, though he passed away midway through my
doctoral work, I could not have dreamed my way through a PhD without my
grandad’s love.
Introduction
In the spring of 1953, the psychiatrist Humphry Osmond made a historical

journey from Weyburn, Saskatchewan, to Los Angeles, California, where he
introduced author Aldous Huxley to mescaline. Osmond had moved from Lon-
don, England, to Weyburn in October 1951 to practice psychiatry. Once settled
in Weyburn, he began investigating the therapeutic potential of drugs such as
mescaline and LSD. Huxley had heard about Osmond’s experiments with hal-
lucinogenic drugs in Canada and volunteered to take part in the early trials with
mescaline. Although Huxley identified himself as a willing participant, Os-
mond ner vously confided to his colleague that he did not “relish the possibility,
however remote, of finding a small but discreditable niche in literary history as
the man who drove Aldous Huxley mad.”1
The mescaline experience inspired Huxley to write an account, published the
following year, called The Doors of Perception. In one excerpt he recalled swallow-
ing the glass of water with its swirling mixture of mescaline. Before drinking the
mescaline, he carefully took stock of the familiar setting of his home and hap-
pened to fixate on a small vase containing three flowers. Returning to this scene
about an hour after ingesting the drug, he observed: “At breakfast that morning I
had been struck by the lively dissonance of its colours. 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.” Huxley detailed his thoughts and feelings about the
experience in well-crafted literary prose dotted with references to philosophy, po-
etry, and religion. He claimed that his response to the drug permitted him to re-
flect on both simple and complex matters from a clear perspective that allowed for
contemplation about the deeper and subjective meaning of life. Psychiatrists
would later classify such experiences as psychedelic.2
After the fateful mescaline experiment in 1953, Osmond and Huxley devel-
oped a close relationship and corresponded regularly. In 1956, they engaged in
2 Psychedelic Psychiatry
a friendly competition to come up with a word to describe the mescaline or LSD

experience. Previously they had exchanged terms such as psychomimetic (mad-
ness mimicking), or hallucinogen, or phantastica, but neither of them felt that
the words conveyed the appropriate sensations. After serious deliberation, Hux-
ley forwarded his suggestion to Osmond in a clever couplet:
To make this mundane world sublime

Just half a gram of phanerothyme.3
Osmond responded with his own rhyming couplet:
To fall in Hell or soar Angelic

You’ll need a pinch of psychedelic.4
The classically trained Osmond combined the Greek words psyche—mean-

ing mind, and delis—meaning manifest. He preferred the idea of mind-
manifestation to Huxley’s term, phanerothyme, which he thought was
confusing. More importantly, he enjoyed psychedelic because he felt that it “had
no par ticular connotation of madness, craziness, or ecstasy, but suggested an
enlargement and expansion of mind.”5 In 1957, Osmond explained the term
psychedelic in a paper that presented some of his research findings to the New
York Academy of Sciences. The publication of his paper introduced the term
into the English lexicon.6
Huxley’s participation in the early trials was not only personally rewarding
for him but also stimulated wider interest in psychedelic drug experimentation
in Saskatchewan. Doors of Perception spread the word to readers about Osmond’s
work, and it also served as an important articulation of the psychedelic experi-
ence, which most people found very difficult to describe. Osmond would later
point to Huxley’s book as a way of introducing volunteers to the kinds of feel-
ings and experiences that they might encounter while participating in the LSD
trials. This book played an important literary and scientific role in the develop-
ment of LSD experiments.
By the mid-1950s, Weyburn, Saskatchewan, a small agrarian community,
entertained a dynamic collection of researchers from Great Britain, Czechoslo-
vakia, Denmark, the United States, and elsewhere in Canada; it became a hub of
international networks for the advancement of psychedelic research. These ex-
periments were not marginal, unethical, or unprofessional, even by contempo-
rary standards. These LSD experiments, which made critical contributions to
public health reforms and psychiatric research, became some of the largest,
Introduction 3
most enduring, and internationally significant experiments in the post–World

War II period.
In the span of twenty-five years, however, LSD underwent a radical transfor-
mation from medical marvel to public pariah. At first, the drug appealed to a
twentieth-century medical profession increasingly fascinated with pharmacother-
apy—using pills to treat illnesses. LSD produced profound physical and psycho-
logical reactions, including hallucinations and delusions.7 These physiological
responses led medical researchers to believe that they might have discovered a
new way of understanding the pathogenesis of schizophrenia. Some psychiatrists
believed that LSD chemically created symptoms that seemed remarkably similar
to those described by patients suffering from severe mental illnesses. Psychia-
trists speculated that if this were true, they could work with biochemists to iden-
tify the organic chemical dysfunction that causes mental diseases. Furthermore,
by taking LSD themselves, psychiatrists felt they could learn to appreciate how
the drug caused dysfunctional thinking, feeling, and behaving, which might en-
able better communication between doctors and their mentally ill patients. By the
end of the 1950s scientists all over the world had conducted thousands of experi-
ments in pursuit of an explanation for the cause of mental diseases; Weyburn
operated as one of the major centers of this research.
In addition to medical interest, the powerful LSD reactions attracted atten-
tion from military investigators. Tests with LSD conducted by the American
military and the CIA on prisoners and military personnel during the cold war
came to light in 1979 when the historian John Marks uncovered an illuminat-
ing set of records. He found that military researchers investigated LSD’s capac-
ity as a “truth serum” or a tool for interrogating spies. Conversely, military
personnel monitored test subjects in an attempt to learn how people might
withstand counterinterrogation while under the influence of drugs. These trials
convinced some CIA agents that spies—notably Soviet communists—would
use LSD as a form of biochemical warfare during the cold war. 8
The CIA’s interest in conducting drug experiments also extended into Can-
ada. In 1988, former psychiatric patients and their families received a court
settlement for treatments performed on them more than three decades earlier
at the Allen Memorial Hospital in Montreal.9 The investigation revealed that the
CIA had funded psychiatrist Ewen Cameron’s tests with LSD on patients with-
out their knowledge or consent. Cameron began with an idea of “depatterning,”
which then led to his theory of “psychic driving” that ultimately involved expos-
ing patients to repetitive images or phrases while taking LSD. One of Cameron’s
patients in the 1950s was Val Orlikow, the wife of one of Manitoba’s federal
members of Parliament, David Orlikow. Val originally approached Cameron
seeking therapy for postpartum depression; she was given LSD without her
consent. Thirty years later, she and her husband launched a federal government
investigation into Cameron’s experiments on patients at the Allen Memorial
Hospital. The highly publicized court proceedings put human faces on the con-
sequences of involuntary LSD research.10 These subversive and conspiratorial
aspects of LSD’s history underscored fears that the drug belonged in a dark
chapter of the history of involuntary psychiatric experimentation.
By the early 1960s, black market versions of acid appeared and its famed
euphoric high gained popularity, especially among college students. During
this period, the baby boomers became a demographically significant group
whose collective enfranchisement threatened to derail the status quo. Political
activism in the form of civil rights movements, feminism, American Indian
movements, the Quebec Quiet Revolution, and anti–Vietnam War protests of-
fered proof that this younger generation of North Americans was agitating for
change. While this cohort of youths seemed to embrace radical movements,
they also appeared to have a penchant for drug use; indeed taking drugs such as
marijuana and LSD became an important badge of their collective identity.
LSD also inspired the rise of unorthodox spiritual gurus, notably former Har-
vard professor Timothy Leary. Leary’s indiscriminate promotion of drugs in the
mid-1960s went hand in hand with the development of a new religion—the
League for Spiritual Discovery. Leary incorporated psychedelic drug use into a
pseudointellectual movement that aligned itself with developing inner freedoms.
Mixing religious philosophies with LSD-inspired mind travel, Leary campaigned
for inner peace through hallucinogens.11 Although he had many connections
with the emerging youth culture of the 1960s, he also attracted a significant
number of middle-class professionals to his drug-inspired philosophies. His
evangelizing efforts earned him notoriety as an LSD guru.
Other LSD advocates, such as the American author Ken Kesey, promoted
drug use among North American youth as a means of escaping convention.
During his summers as a college student in the 1950s, Kesey had volunteered at
a state psychiatric hospital, an experience that eventually inspired him to write
One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1962). His book, which became a theatrical
production and later an award-winning movie, told the lurid story of Randall
McMurphy. McMurphy (played by Jack Nicholson in the Oscar-winning film)
was a transfer from a state prison, a convicted rapist who was deemed to be (or
becoming) insane. In the state psychiatric facility he was treated with a variety
Introduction 5
of invasive therapies including electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) and a lobotomy.

Kesey’s famous story shed light on a dark chapter in the history of psychiatric
institutionalization by characterizing psychiatric treatments as instruments of
punishment and coercion. The popular film had an enduring resonance that
has shaped cultural perceptions of psychiatry and its treatments to this day.
Shortly after the publication of his book, Kesey himself participated in psy-
chiatric experimentation. At Stanford University, as part of a CIA-funded pro-
gram called MK-ULTRA, Kesey volunteered to take LSD. Although he was one
of hundreds of student volunteers in the Bay Area in the 1960s, Kesey’s involve-
ment differed from his peers. He embraced the consciousness- expanding expe-
rience as though it were a new personal religion; he became its self-appointed
evangelist. Kesey felt that the mind-manifesting experience triggered by LSD
offered him an alternative perspective on the world and he wanted to introduce
others to his newfound philosophy. Kesey became an icon of the psychedelic
drug movement and promised psychological freedoms to those who embraced
the drugs’ chemically inspired visions. For people who shared this philosophy,
Kesey was a leader. In many respects, however, he simultaneously embodied
the image that would eventually provoke a moral panic over youth drug use.
At the outset of his academic career, Kesey was an athletic, talented student,
the epitome of a promising, all-American, middle- class youth. As a university
student, however, he developed an insatiable love of drugs—psychedelic in
particular—and promoted their use to his peers. During the mid-1960s he
toured the United States in a DayGlo-painted bus named Furthur and expanded
minds with a loyal following of youth calling themselves the Merry Pranksters
who, along with Kesey, distributed acid as “electric Kool-Aid.” Kesey and the
Pranksters encouraged regular LSD consumption along with the rejection of
authority, patriotism, and postwar middle- class values. By 1966, Kesey personi-
fied the growing fears associated with LSD use. Many people became concerned
that an entire generation of Kesey-like figures would become “turned on” by
drugs and steer society into a dangerous future.
LSD shed its early persona as an experimental psychopharmacological agent
from the 1950s and slowly transformed, in the 1960s, in the public view, into
“acid,” a revolutionary street drug. Along with the proliferation of acid came
numerous reports of horrific experiences, undesirable outcomes, teratogenic
effects, and other unexpected results that alarmed medical and political au-
thorities. When added to the climate of social tumult that pitted generation
against generation, LSD ignited a moral panic. Governments swiftly banned
the substance and reclassified it as a narcotic, which meant that possession
carried severe criminal sentences. Medical research with the drug ground to a
halt. By the late 1960s and early 1970s, the image of LSD had become conflated
with danger, delinquency, and abuse. Media reports universally condemned
medical research with psychedelics as unethical and misguided.
Most of the literature to date investigating the history of LSD has focused on
the CIA experiments or the drug culture of the 1960s. These accounts have
reinforced an image of LSD as a dangerous substance. This path from usually
covert medical experimentation to counterculture revolution is the story that
generally unfolded in the mainstream media of the 1950s and ’60s. Several
newspapers put LSD on their front pages in 1963 when Harvard University dis-
missed psychologist Timothy Leary for engaging in quasi-recreational drug use
as part of his funded research. By 1966, the same papers reported that LSD
unleashed radicalism among youth. After its criminalization in 1968, LSD
seemed like it might fade into obscurity, but in the late 1970s and throughout
the 1980s it appeared again and again as the North American public learned
the details of CIA experiments and the ensuing legal battles. In the popular
mind, LSD connoted danger. The connections between LSD and Kesey, Leary,
or an agitated youth counterculture resonate in twentieth-century popular cul-
ture, and this powerful imagery has overshadowed the significance of the ear-
lier history of LSD in medical research.
Other drugs, such as opium, morphine, cocaine, and MDMA (methylenedi-
oxymethamphetamine), have migrated from a clinical setting to the street. And
drugs such as alcohol and marijuana have crossed back and forth across the
boundaries of medicine.12 Like LSD, these drugs were associated with par ticu-
lar groups of people—hippies, Chinese immigrants, black Americans—and
often the drug policies that subsequently criminalized these drugs reveal a dis-
comfort with that group rather than with the drug itself.13 Prozac, Paxil, Ritalin,
and lithium belong to a slightly different category of drugs whose histories are
intimately clinical but whose futures grow increasingly suspicious with news of
long-term side effects, a lucrative street market, and the unrelenting marketing
campaigns of pharmaceutical companies that raise questions about the under-
lying motivations for promoting their use.14 The medical profession is similarly
involved in determining acceptable drug use by defining addiction along with
safe and unsafe use; clinicians have struggled to define the terms of substance
abuse and its treatment.15 Another category of drugs includes ones such as tha-
lidomide: medical wonders turned nightmarish. Marketed primarily in Europe
and Canada, within a year its resultant birth defects, not to mention the vast
number of spontaneous abortions associated with it, alarmed governments, the
Introduction 7
medical community, and consumers, and set a precedent for developing strict
policies concerning drug trials. After thalidomide, drugs had to be tested with
specific therapeutic objectives for distinctive, identifiable disorders. In each of
these categories, the medical community has been involved, whether in the pro-
cess of discovery, experimentation, prescription, detoxification, or articulating
the side effects or dangers. LSD, as somewhat contemporaneous with thalido-
mide, serves as an important object for studying the relationships between po-
litical, medical, and popular conceptions of drugs and their associated harms
and risks.
During LSD’s transfer from the clinic to the campus, political and legal au-
thorities sought advice from medical experts before criminalizing the drug. In
several jurisdictions legal investigators deliberately privileged advice from med-
ical scientists who had not taken LSD. As a result, the medical researchers with
the most experience studying LSD were not directly involved in the decisions
concerning its subsequent control and regulation. Outspoken psychedelic re-
searchers and “gurus” warned policy makers that a misunderstanding of the
LSD epidemic would result if they were not consulted. Humphry Osmond, as
one of the leading authorities on psychedelics, expressed anxiety over trying to
maintain medical authority in the face of strong pressure from medical and po-
litical opposition. His personal investments in psychedelic drug research in
combination with his sympathy toward some countercultural ideas ultimately
led to his marginalization from the medical establishment.
The story of LSD involves a fascinating period in the history of medicine and
North American culture. I begin by focusing on one of the largest and most in-
fluential sets of LSD trials on the rural Canadian prairies. Weyburn residents
welcomed doctors to this underserved area. The newly elected social democratic
government also welcomed medical scientists and wanted to prove that a social-
ist region could support innovative medical research in the post-World War and
cold war periods. Location, therefore, influenced professional decisions; with
very few colleagues, psychiatrists practicing in Saskatchewan faced fewer dis-
senting opinions from fellow experts. The development and reception of psych-
edelic psychiatry took place in an intellectual environment that welcomed
medical experimentation.
Operating in a well-supported political environment, clinical researchers
began seeking professional support for their studies from psychopharmacologi-
cal investigators throughout North America. The historian Edward Shorter has
described this period in the history of psychiatry as the beginning of “the sec-
ond biological psychiatry,” after parting from it in the nineteenth century with
the rise of Freudian theories. In other words, psychiatrists looked again to biol-
ogy for explaining and treating mental disorders rather than depending on talk-
ing therapies to treat the worried well. The psychopharmacologist David Healy
referred to the profound changes in treatment options arising out of this period
as a “therapeutic revolution.” The antipsychiatrist Thomas Szasz is more criti-
cal, referring to this decade as one that featured the introduction of the “thera-
peutic state,” contending that psychiatry gained even greater control over its
patients by creating chemical dependence.16 During the 1950s there were dra-
matic changes in mental health research and clinical drug experimentation
that contributed significantly to a new outlook on psychiatry, a medical spe-
cialty that became more and more interested in pharmacotherapies. The tri-
umph of drug therapies emerged as a symbol of the advancement of technology
and medical knowledge. This laid the groundwork for an insidious relationship
between psychiatry and commercial interests, which resulted in the develop-
ment of a multibillion dollar pharmaceutical industry that, arguably, stymied
the psychiatric profession in its ability to offer effective clinical alternatives to
psychopharmacology.17 Civil libertarians, antipsychiatrists, and others who in-
creasingly regarded psychiatry as a pseudoscience complained that these devel-
opments merely added psychopharmacological treatments to the arsenal of
mechanisms employed to maintain social control over individuals deemed ab-
normal or deviant.
Although LSD ultimately did not become a marketable pharmaceutical prod-
uct, its brief use in psychiatric treatments demonstrated an enthusiasm for
pharmacology in the 1950s. LSD differed from other, more commercially suc-
cessful drugs in that it promised to provide a single experience that would help
patients overcome their disorders, rather than simply control symptoms. The
psychedelic drug researchers in Saskatchewan deplored the increased use of
antipsychotic medications that offered patients a lifetime dependence on drugs
that controlled symptoms but never really addressed the root causes of the dis-
order. The therapeutic rationale for LSD consisted of a single intense experience
that its proponents believed could restore self- control to the patients or at the
very least offer personal insights into the disordered nature of their thinking,
feeling, and behaving. In short, psychedelic psychiatrists designed a therapy
that concentrated on empowering patients to play a more active role in their re-
covery, instead of passively accepting treatments doled out by psychiatrists. Far
from being simply another competitor in the growing pharmaceutical industry,
LSD threatened to undermine it.
Introduction 9
The increased focus on drug treatments in psychiatry brought changes in

therapeutic options and ushered in new theoretical explanations for the causes
of disorder and disease. It also prompted some clinicians to reconsider the pa-
thology of alcoholism. Research groups in other parts of the world were also
studying the causes of alcoholism and considering whether it was in fact a dis-
ease. Although the Saskatchewan investigators did not originally anticipate
LSD’s use as a therapeutic agent, trials with “normals” revealed its capacity to
produce feelings of self-reflection, suggesting that it had some therapeutic prop-
erties.18 These findings led them to apply their biochemical theory of mental
illness directly to alcoholism. Working closely with Alcoholics Anonymous,
psychedelic psychiatrists treated alcoholics using LSD and claimed unprece-
dented rates of success, routinely achieving recoveries in over 50 percent of the
patients. Their psycho-biochemical conceptualization of alcoholism, in combi-
nation with their claims of efficacy, troubled a number of their medical col-
leagues. In par ticular, the idea that LSD cured alcoholics concerned members of
the Addictions Research Foundation in Toronto, who consequently produced
their own LSD trials disputing the findings of the Saskatchewan studies. These
debates illustrated the high professional stakes involved in this kind of research,
which, perhaps surprisingly, focused on evaluating efficacy and methodology
rather than on concern for the drug’s inherent dangers, which would dominate
discussions by the late 1960s.
By the second half of the 1950s researchers began looking beyond their labs
for subjects and methods. In western Canada allegations that members of the
Native American Church of North America engaged in violent behavior after
becoming intoxicated on the peyote cactus captured attention from American
and Canadian government officials, as well as the ascendant psychedelic re-
searchers. The peyote cactus contained the alkaloid mescaline, one of the
hallucination- causing substances under examination by psychiatrists in Sas-
katchewan. The peyote ceremony had been a traditional component of Native
American Church activities, which had its roots in the southern United States
but had been registered in western Canada since the 1930s. By the middle of the
1950s the federal government in Canada attempted to follow California’s lead in
criminalizing peyote, at which point members of the church invited Abram
Hoffer and Humphry Osmond to provide them with scientific evidence con-
cerning the dangers of the drug and the associated ceremony. As part of their
investigations, the two men were invited to participate in a peyote ceremony to
judge the activities for themselves.
In October 1956 five white men joined a group of ten church members, in-
cluding American representatives from Montana. Their participation in the
peyote ceremony formally introduced some of the researchers to the ritualistic
and spiritual dimension that traditionally accompanied the psychedelic experi-
ence. Their participation in this ritual exposed deeply held views about race and
religion that became entangled in the subsequent debates over the legality of a
native religion that embraced drug use. Although their findings did not satisfy
federal government officials, their ceremonial introduction to peyotism high-
lighted a spiritual component in the psychedelic experience that had been rec-
ognized but not articulated in their scientific trials.
Their observance of the peyote ceremony publicly connected psychedelic re-
search with religion, but contemporaneous developments occurring in other
locations throughout North America also pointed out this relationship. As re-
search into LSD treatments for alcoholism began gathering momentum, Hoffer
and Osmond came into contact with other LSD enthusiasts—medical and non-
medical. A growing cadre of LSD experimenters in Saskatchewan, British Co-
lumbia, California, and New York gradually established a collegial network for
exchanging ideas, strategies for addressing various challenges, and even sup-
plies. Spearheaded by a particularly controversial figure then residing in British
Columbia, Al Hubbard, the “Johnny Appleseed of LSD,” some of the enthusiasts
decided to institutionalize their network and formed the Commission for the
Study of Creative Imagination.19
The commission provided a means for bringing scientific, medical, literary,
cultural, and religious interests together in a coordinated examination of drugs
such as LSD, mescaline, psilocybin, and other mind-altering substances collec-
tively referred to by the end of the 1950s as psychedelics. Their attempts to
consolidate efforts helped shield investigators from external criticism for a
while, but it also intensified the methodological and interpretive divisions over
how to best evaluate the drugs and for whom they should be tested. The split
seemed most pronounced over whether the drugs held medicinal or spiritual
properties. Some individuals tried to bridge this gap by articulating positions
on the spiritual dimension of contemporary pharmacological medicine. The
internal splits within the commission highlighted the state of the field at the
end of the 1950s and left psychedelic researchers poorly equipped to weather
the storm that lay ahead.
By the mid-1960s discussions about LSD had shifted from a medicoscien-
tific context to a social and cultural one concerned with the perils of drug abuse.
Public and medical discourse on LSD descended into a dichotomous debate
Introduction 11
between consumers and resistors. Psychedelic psychiatrists, whose approaches

included taking LSD themselves, became embroiled in these debates that pitted
one generation against another. Questions about the efficacy of the drug in
clinical practice gave way to more pressing concerns over whether medical pro-
fessionals could control the spread of an LSD epidemic.
The records from the Saskatchewan LSD experiments offer a different per-
spective on the drug’s history from the one that condemns LSD as a tool for
military interrogation or as a stimulus for cultural discord. Instead of paranoia
about unethical mind- control experiments or a breakdown in social relations,
a surprisingly optimistic tone emerges in the medical history of LSD in the
1950s. In Saskatchewan, local press reports, provincial government records,
and oral interviews with participants expressed profound enthusiasm for this
kind of research. Personal records maintained by individual LSD investigators
further demonstrate the seriousness of their professional commitment to the
enterprise. Abram Hoffer, one of Osmond’s closest colleagues, and himself a
practicing psychiatrist in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, in the 1950s and 1960s
donated more than three hundred boxes of materials related to these experi-
ments to the Saskatchewan Archives Board; thirty boxes alone contain letters of
correspondence between Hoffer and Osmond. Patient case files and personal
letters included in this collection show that people wanted to participate in
these trials; when I conducted a very small sample of oral interviews forty years
later, the former patients still felt that way.
Saskatchewan government records demonstrate that a significant degree of
political support existed for the LSD experimentation. Saskatchewan was one of
the first jurisdictions in North America to implement a system of publicly
funded health care, which later became the blueprint for the Canadian national
system. The election of a social democratic party, the Cooperative Common-
wealth Federation, in 1944 set the province apart from other North American
jurisdictions as it embarked on a twenty-year political experiment with social-
ism; health reform quickly emerged as the number one priority for this govern-
ment. Records from the province’s premier, Tommy Douglas, and his cabinet
ministers illustrated their commitment to making Saskatchewan a dynamic
medical research center that could support health care reforms with homeg-
rown solutions. By the mid-1950s many members of the provincial government
realized that the LSD experiments were a set of studies worth supporting be-
cause they showed potential for sweeping innovation in mental health care.
Letters from patients, families of patients, and community organizations
similarly displayed support for psychedelic research. As the experiments
expanded to tackle the problems of alcoholism and mental health accommoda-

tions, they attracted significant sympathetic attention from social workers,
psychiatric nurses, Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) members (and their families),
temperance reformers, and politicians. Letters from such people and groups
revealed a keen interest in LSD experimentation outside the clinical setting;
communities felt they had a vested interest in the outcome of these experi-
ments. Local newspapers, political speeches, and organizational publications
(such as the Bureau for Alcoholism newsletter) regularly applauded local medi-
cal researchers for their pioneering efforts in the field of mental health. This
kind of evidence suggests that the LSD experiments in Saskatchewan were well
regarded and locally supported in the 1950s.
During the oral interviews that I conducted, psychiatrists, psychologists,
nurses, government officials, and patients candidly revealed an enthusiasm for
a historical inquiry focused on the Saskatchewan project. Many of them felt that
such an investigation might help to improve the reputation of LSD experimen-
tation. Professionals involved in the LSD research of the 1950s regularly com-
mented on the exciting research atmosphere that existed in the province at the
time and the feeling among them that novel or radical results could only be
produced under the kind of conditions that existed in Saskatchewan. Nurses
recalled, with pride, their attraction to a project that depended on their partici-
pation as professionals with a specialized expertise as close observers and con-
fidantes of patients, at a time when nurses were struggling to professionalize.
Government officials located the drug research within a wider matrix of politi-
cal reforms. Patients freely and generously supplied me with detailed recollec-
tions of their own experiences, as well as their reflections on the significance of
the trials in Saskatchewan. People treated for alcoholism with LSD claimed an
enduring sobriety. Former patients also explained the central role that they had
played in these trials as the “real” experts of mental illness and addiction. In
sum, patients offered me a history of the drug that is not written down any-
where. Together these oral testimonies provided valuable perspectives from the
participants themselves and challenged the existing cultural and medical his-
tory of psychedelic drugs by contending that LSD treatments worked.
chapter one
Psychedelic Pioneers
In April 1943, Albert Hofmann, a Swiss biochemist, dissolved an infinitesi-

mal amount of a newly synthesized drug, d-lysergic acid diethylamide (LSD), in
a glass of water and drank it. Three quarters of an hour later he recorded a grow-
ing dizziness, some visual disturbances, and a marked desire to laugh. After
about an hour he asked his assistant to call a doctor and then accompany him
home from his research laboratory at the Sandoz Pharmaceutical Company in
Zurich. He climbed onto his bicycle and went on a surreal journey. In Hof-
mann’s mind he was not on the familiar road that led home, but rather a street
painted by Salvador Dali, a fun house roller coaster. He had trouble coordinat-
ing his legs to pedal his bicycle. He tried to communicate his predicament to
his assistant but found that he had no voice. Reaching home he encountered a
neighbor he thought had become a witch. When a doctor reached Hofmann he
found him physically fine but mentally in a distraught state. Hofmann later
wondered if he had permanently damaged his mind.1
Hofmann’s serendipitous discovery of the chemical compound LSD intro-
duced a new drug that inspired a flurry of interest. He had first synthesized the
drug in 1938, but without physical contact with the substance until 1943 he re-
mained unaware of its dramatic effects. Not until some spilled on his hand, in
1943, did he discover that he might have produced something worth further
investigation. Following his initial drug reaction Hofmann published his ac-
count of the LSD discovery and shortly afterward the Sandoz Pharmaceutical
Company made the drug widely available to scientific researchers around the
world.2
One of the remarkable aspects of the drug was that it required extremely
small doses to produce powerful reactions. LSD was measured in micrograms
(mcg), and as few as 25 to 50 mcg could cause an individual to hallucinate. Pain
relief from aspirin, by comparison, required a dose of 300,000 mcg for observ-
able effects. This powerful chemical was a colorless, odorless substance that, in
minute quantities, could cause an individual to believe that he or she had be-
come psychotic. LSD immediately appealed to medical researchers as a drug
that might help explain the origins of mental disorders, particularly those in-
volving involuntary psychoses.
LSD appeared alongside a list of other chemical substances that attracted
significant attention from psychopharmacologists; in the 1950s the introduc-
tion of chemical therapies in psychiatry seemed capable of reforming the disci-
pline and radically transforming the experience of mental illness. One of North
America’s early psychopharmacologists, Thomas Ban, commented that in the
1950s, drug research (psychopharmacology) into mental disorders was respon-
sible for “dragging psychiatry into the modern world.” Psychopharmacological
research at this time received two Nobel Prizes: one was awarded to Daniel
Bovet for research on antihistamines and another to James Black for his identi-
fication of histamine receptors. In fact, in an investigation of the history of
psychopharmacology, psychiatrist David Healy argues that nearly all of the anti-
depressants, including selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), and the
antipsychotics were a result of the drug research that took place during that de-
cade.3 These contemporaneous developments inspired confidence in the medi-
cal contention that psychopharmacological treatments would not only modernize
psychiatry but would also pave the way for dramatic reforms in mental health
care in the post–World War II period.
In 1952 the advent of antipsychotics (drugs that ameliorate the incidence or
severity of psychotic episodes) began with French surgeon Henri Laborit’s dis-
covery of chlorpromazine.4 Over the next three decades this drug, known by the
trade names Thorazine and Largactil, seemed largely responsible for emptying
asylums throughout North America and Europe. Chlorpromazine purportedly
reduced positive psychiatric symptoms in patients in a manner that helped im-
prove the potential for care in the community, or gave way to the optimistic be-
lief that patients could lead meaningful lives outside the institution.5 The
subsequent dismantling of psychiatric institutions had a revolutionary effect on
mental health care. Although chlorpromazine was not the only reason for dis-
mantling the asylum, the increased reliance on drugs in psychiatry demon-
strated the enormous potential for drugs to change the course of mental health
care policy and the important role that they would play in the future of
psychiatry.6
Experimentation with LSD began in earnest in the 1950s in North America
and throughout Europe alongside studies with antidepressants and antipsy-
chotics, in a general climate of optimism that drug research, including that
Psychedelic Pioneers 15
with LSD, would improve psychiatry. Some LSD trials involved the same inves-
tigators who had participated in experiments with chlorpromazine.7 LSD stud-
ies began in an environment where there was considerable medical faith that
biochemistry would provide the discrete tools that would eventually unlock the
mysteries of the mind. The results of LSD trials were published in major medi-
cal journals and contributed to mainstream psychiatry. By 1951, more than one
hundred articles on LSD had appeared in medical publications. By 1961, the
number had increased to over one thousand. While the majority of articles were
published in English, studies also appeared in Japanese, German, Polish, Dan-
ish, Dutch, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Hungarian, Russian, Swed-
ish, and Bulgarian.
Access to LSD attracted medical researchers with a variety of approaches to
experimentation. Some tested its physiological effects on animals; others’ stud-
ies involved human subjects who could then report on the drug’s capacity to
bring the unconscious to the conscious; still others explored the drug’s intimate
reaction through self- experimentation. Given its range of applications, LSD ap-
pealed to medical researchers across theoretical approaches. For psychoana-
lysts, the drug released hitherto suppressed memories; for psychotherapists, it
brought patients to new levels of self-awareness; and for psychopharmacolo-
gists, LSD reactions supported their contentions that mental disorders had
chemical origins. For approximately fifteen years medical research with LSD
proceeded with relatively few interruptions.8
Humphry Osmond Brings LSD to Saskatchewan

Humphry Osmond was born in Surrey, England, on July 1, 1917. His father,
who worked in a local hospital as the paymaster captain, moved the family to
Devonshire, but Humphry later lived with his aunt and uncle back in Surrey,
where he completed the rest of his preparatory schooling. Rather than heading
straight into the study of medicine at university, Osmond took a more circuitous
route, beginning with theater writing; he even had a brief flirtation with bank-
ing. He credited Hector Cameron, a physician and historian of medicine, with
introducing him to the wide variety of possibilities within medicine, which cap-
tured his academic interests.9
Osmond had completed his clinical training by 1939, but the outbreak of war
interrupted his regular hospital ward practicum and forced him to engage in
intermittent fieldwork. In 1940, at Guy’s Hospital in London, he experienced
the horrors of the German bombs that rained down on the city, destroying
Humphry Osmond at Saskatchewan Mental Hospital in Weyburn, Saskatchewan.

Osmond moved from London, England, to Weyburn in 1951. Courtesy of the Soo Line
Historical Museum Archives.
much of the area but miraculously leaving the hospital more or less intact. For
the next several months he and a few medical school colleagues ran a makeshift
morgue. Several years later, he recalled the profound influence this experience
had upon him: “as a Socialist . . . it wasn’t enough to say this is the inevitable
process of history.” He qualified for medicine in July 1942, but his plans were
again interrupted by the war when he was called to military ser vice in Novem-
ber that same year.10
He joined the Royal Navy and spent Christmas 1942 at the barracks in Ports-
mouth. Later, serving on a destroyer that moved back and forth across the At-
lantic Ocean as German submarines fired torpedoes at them, Osmond struggled
to provide the ship’s crew medical assistance with limited practical experience
and meager medical supplies. While at sea, he also learned that the psychiatric
emergencies were often quite severe and potentially more damaging than the
physical crises.11 Osmond met Surgeon Captain Desmond Curran, head of psy-
chiatry in the British navy, who helped him nurture his interest in psychiatry,
while his medical colleagues chastised him for abandoning what could have
been a promising career in surgery.12
After the war, Osmond was appointed senior registrar at the psychiatric
unit at St. George’s Hospital in London. There he worked closely with John
Smythies and cultivated a keen interest in chemically induced reactions in
the human body. Smythies discovered that the topic had attracted interest in
the late nineteenth century from people such as William James, Havelock
Ellis, and S. Weir Mitchell, but that enthusiasm for studies of hallucinations
had trailed off at the turn of the century. He then happened upon another
collection of articles in the medical literature from the 1920s and 1930s by
authors including Karl Beringer, Alexander Rouhier, and Heinrich Klüver.13
Again, he found that clinical interest in hallucinations eventually disap-
peared.14 Klüver’s book Mescal piqued Smythies’s curiosity with a description
of a chemically induced hallucination, using the active ingredient in the pe-
yote cactus (mescaline) traditionally used in some Native American and Mex-
ican spiritual ceremonies.15 Smythies showed the results of his study to some
colleagues, including Humphry Osmond. Osmond immediately wanted to
learn more about the relationship between the mescaline reaction and hallu-
cinations. After consulting with a medical student, Julian Redmill, and an
organic chemist, John Harley-Mason, Osmond and Smythies determined
that mescaline had a chemical makeup that was very similar to adrenaline.
They postulated that adrenaline might be metabolized in some people in a
manner that produces a mescaline-like substance, a substance that, in turn,
caused hallucinations.16
With the aid of John Harley-Mason, they began examining the chemical
properties of mescaline. Nearly two years of research led them to conclude that
mescaline produced reactions in volunteers that resembled the symptoms of
schizophrenia, a chronic “disease marked by disordered thinking, hallucina-
tions, social withdrawal, and, in severe cases, a deterioration in the capacity to
lead a rewarding life.”17 These findings led to their theory that schizophrenia
resulted from a biochemical imbalance in the sufferer. They believed that the
imbalance might be caused by a dysfunction in the process of metabolizing
adrenaline, which in turn created a new substance that chemically resembled
mescaline.18 This tantalizing hypothesis captivated Osmond’s interests for the
next two decades.
Smythies and Osmond published the first known biochemical theory of the
archetypal psychotic disorder schizophrenia. In their original publication on
the subject, they argued that schizophrenia was caused by a metabolic failure,
producing an as-yet-undiscovered substance. They suggested that the unknown
substance (M-substance) resembled mescaline. Although mescaline had been
studied medically and had been used in religious ceremonies, Osmond and
Smythies contended that the possible similarities between mescaline reactions
and schizophrenic psychosis had never been explored scientifically. After inves-
tigating the drug and its effects on themselves, they identified patterns of bio-
chemical dysfunction in the adrenaline system. They contended that this new
finding shed light on the causation and manifestation of schizophrenia.19
Contemporary medical research on mental illness, Osmond lamented, had
been misguided by prevailing scientific theories. For example, Eugene Bleuler’s
popular theory of schizophrenia concentrated on interpretations of problems
affecting the psyche.20 According to Osmond, this perspective led clinicians
astray by focusing on psychological symptoms alone without investigating un-
derlying biochemical or metabolic symptoms. In contrast, other clinicians had
developed theories after examining only physiological symptoms. As a result,
they applied somatic treatments, such as psychosurgery, lobotomies, or electro-
convulsive therapy (ECT), with little concern for the psychological component
of mental illness. Osmond and Smythies felt that the efficacy of electroconvul-
sive therapy (shock treatments) had “received some measure of general ap-
proval, but even here there is no agreement as to how it works and even some
uncertainty about whether it works.” Smythies and Osmond felt that a more
satisfying and comprehensive theory of schizophrenia that took account of both
biochemical and psychological factors had to prevail before justifying additional
investments in medical technology. The absence of theoretical approaches, they
complained, meant that mental health therapies relied on chance as much as
science.21
Early in 1951, Smythies and Osmond embarked on a research program that
investigated the biochemical and psychological basis of schizophrenia. First,
they devised a research protocol based on human experimentation with mesca-
line and LSD. Their approach relied on “start[ing] with the signs and symptoms
and natural history of schizophrenia and ask[ing] ourselves how these could be
produced, refusing to be diverted by the existing schools of thought.” They en-
visioned a two-part program. First they would identify the biochemical and
metabolic processes; second they would collect experiences from subjects under
the influence of mescaline or LSD.22
They quickly realized, however, that their colleagues at St. George’s Hospital
were uninterested in supporting this research program.23 Osmond began look-
ing elsewhere for opportunities to develop the hypothesis. After responding to
an advertisement in Lancet, he was invited by the government of Saskatchewan
to assume a position in Weyburn. He and his family moved from London, En-
gland, to Weyburn, Saskatchewan, in October 1951.
From Dust Bowl to Drugs

When the Osmonds arrived in Saskatchewan, the province was in the midst
of transforming itself. In 1944, Saskatchewan had elected one of North Ameri-
ca’s first social democratic governments. The ruling party, the Co- operative
Commonwealth Federation (CCF) led by Tommy Douglas, campaigned as an
activist government committed to radical experimentation in public policy as
well as in the domains of science, medicine, agriculture, and technology. The
party remained in power for five consecutive four-year terms. Throughout its
tenure, the CCF government expressed a commitment to nurture innovation.
In par ticular, this government became known throughout Canada as the first
provincial jurisdiction to enact a program of publicly funded health care, a sys-
tem that the Canadian federal government adopted in 1966.24 The CCF’s re-
form agenda attracted professionals from around the world who enthusiastically
tested new theories and challenged old paradigms in a variety of areas. The
governing party’s socialist ideology and rural base produced a peculiar mix of
agrarian socialism that made the province an attractive destination for many
politically curious individuals.25 Although Saskatchewan was not the only re-
gion that developed a new political party at this time, the CCF’s popularity
demonstrated the willingness with which Saskatchewan residents welcomed
change in the postwar period.26
Saskatchewan’s premier, Thomas “Tommy” Clement Douglas, had a long-
standing interest in mental health issues. His master’s thesis at McMaster
University’s campus in Brandon, Manitoba, explored social problems associ-
ated with mental diseases. The 1933 thesis recommended a variety of commu-
nity endeavors for addressing what appeared to be increasing rates of mental
illness in the twentieth century. In his study, Douglas examined the commu-
nity of Weyburn, Saskatchewan, and recommended initiatives in public educa-
tion, religious instruction, state-supported treatment facilities, and even
sterilization to alleviate the mounting stresses of mental illness in the commu-
nity.27 Although his perspectives had changed somewhat by the time he became
N O RT H W E ST TERRITO RIES
N
MA NI TO BA
CANADA
S A S K AT C H E WA N
Provincial Mental Hospital,

AL BE RTA
North Battleford
University of Saskatchewan,
Saskatoon
General Hospital, Munro Wing,

Regina
North Battleford
Saskatoon
Psychiatric Centre,
Yorkton
Yorkton Provincial Mental Hospital

Regina Weyburn
Weyburn
0 300 km
U N I TED STATES
Sites of psychiatric research in Saskatchewan during the 1950s and 1960s.
premier, Douglas maintained a keen interest in mental health programs and

ensured that psychiatric ser vices were included in discussions about plans for
health care reforms.
Until 1914, Saskatchewan residents seeking mental health care had to travel
to the neighboring provinces of Alberta or Manitoba for medical attention.28
That year the first provincial mental hospital opened at North Battleford, in the
northwest region of the province below the tree line. Seven years later, the sec-
ond mental hospital opened in Weyburn, in the southeast corner of the prov-
ince. By the end of the Second World War each facility housed over two thousand
patients, which was well beyond their capacity.29 Because both institutions were
overcrowded, the Saskatchewan government planned to build a third facility in
Saskatoon.30 Plans for this facility were stalled by poor economic conditions
Thomas “Tommy” C. Douglas, ca. 1944. Douglas was Saskatchewan’s premier from
1944 to 1961. Under his administration, the attention given to health care reforms
attracted medical researchers to the region. Photo no. R-A5739-2. Courtesy of the
Saskatchewan Archives Board.
throughout the 1930s followed by concentrated spending on the war effort dur-
ing the first half of the 1940s.
After World War II several regions across North America faced increases in
patient populations. In 1950, the National Department of Health and Welfare in
Canada reported that nearly sixty thousand people resided in mental hospitals
across the country. This figure represented an increase of almost four thousand
patients from the previous year and reflected a growing trend over the last de-
cade. In addition to the increased need for institutional space, the costs of main-
taining patients within institutions also rose.31 Predictions showed no signs of
a reversal; therefore, political and clinical attention began focusing on develop-
ing sustainable solutions that did not involve dependence on expensive,
Saskatchewan Mental Hospital, Weyburn. Opened in 1921, this was the second mental
health hospital in Saskatchewan. By the end of World War II both Saskatchewan hospitals
were overcrowded. Courtesy of the Soo Line Historical Museum Archives.
large-scale institutions. In the late 1940s, the Saskatchewan government aban-

doned its earlier plans to construct a third mental health facility in Saskatoon
and instead entertained new options.
Douglas deplored the tradition of placing people with mental illnesses in
custodial institutions. He maintained that overcrowded and understaffed asy-
lums produced terrible conditions for therapy. Moreover, where professionals
were available, he felt they were often too busy attending day-today duties
rather than engaging in medical research that might produce more satisfying
alternatives to institutionalization. He believed that a hospital should be a place
of last resort, and that care among relatives and within a familiar community
was almost always preferable to long stays in a hospital. Mental health ser vices,
according to Douglas, should be provided in a comprehensive manner that em-
phasized preventative medicine and involved professional collaboration in the
community. His strategy for accomplishing this objective relied on a combina-
tion of increasing psychiatric research and initiating an aggressive public edu-
cation campaign. Taking cues from a well-known sympathizer of socialized
medicine, Johns Hopkins’s professor in the history of medicine Henry E. Siger-
ist, Douglas proposed that “steps should be taken . . . to get at these people be-
fore they get to hospital; to provide for early diagnosis and treatment; to get the
psychoneurotic and borderline cases in the early stages; to have people take a
new attitude to mental disease; to get the public to know that there is no more
disgrace for one member of the family to get mentally ill than there is for any
other member of the family to [get] pneumonia.”32 This focus on noninstitu-
tional medical intervention set the agenda for mental health reforms in the
province that emphasized innovative medical research and new conceptualiza-
tions of mental illnesses.
In an effort to recast the province as an exciting, avant-garde, even cosmo-
politan, place to be, Douglas and his government appealed to medical research-
ers with promises of research grants, professional autonomy, and an opportunity
to participate in the formation of North America’s first program of socialized
medicine. The attention given to health care reforms transformed the region
into an attractive destination for medical researchers. The erosion of the re-
gion’s professional class during the Depression had created a professional vac-
uum. Conditions on the prairies were among the most severe in North America,
and local residents readily embraced recommendations for new and replenished
ser vices in communities that had struggled to retain professionals during the
decade-long Depression. The CCF government recruited doctors and medical
researchers to fill senior positions in the rapidly expanding provincial civil ser-
vice. A delicate and complicated set of historical and psychological factors gave
rise to a new vision for the region that, above all, created opportunities for
experimentation.
For some people, Saskatchewan became an ideological magnet, attracting
people from around the world who hoped to participate in the various experi-
ments taking place. During the Depression and the Second World War, the pop-
ulation of the province had decreased by nearly 100,000 residents; that population
had nearly been recouped by the early 1960s.33 Medical and mental health inves-
tigators were among those drawn to the province. Robert Sommer, for example,
came to Weyburn in 1957. Sommer was the first research psychologist in the
area. He and his family, who drove from Kansas to Saskatchewan in their Volvo,
looked forward to living in the “socially progressive” region. Sommer later
claimed that the sparse professional population reduced the stifling influence of
bureaucracy and tradition. He said there was “a professional freedom for experi-
mentation not found elsewhere.” Morgan White, a colleague in Winnipeg, sug-
gested that “Saskatchewan has the reputation for being a place where things
happen. It has attracted within its borders a group of vigorous, independent,
young psychologists whose style of work may set the pattern for the rest of Can-
ada.” Rhodes scholar Allen Blakeney, who in 1944 was a Dalhousie law student,
moved to Regina after completing his law degree because he “wanted to be part
of the action.”34 The region captivated him, and in 1971 he became premier of the
province.
The province appealed to people for myriad reasons. One woman recalled
that upon completing high school in British Columbia she set her sights on
Saskatchewan. She had heard that the government would pay tuition for women
who wanted to go to nursing school. Sold on this idea, she moved from Vancou-
ver to Weyburn, where she started nursing school. She remembered this as one
of the “most exciting times in her life”; not only did she leave home for the first
time but she met people from all over the world who brought with them their
ideas, energy, and cosmopolitan influences. In Weyburn she was introduced to
jazz.35
Contrasted with the province’s postwar appeal were grim reminders of
the previous de cade that made the province unappealing to anyone seeking
an abundance of modern amenities or an urban environment. For many peo-
ple, Saskatchewan remained a backwoods, rural region, disagreeable to well-
established professional organizations or high culture traditions.36 Until the
late 1950s, much of the province had only limited access to electricity and in
many areas indoor plumbing was a luxury. Saskatchewan’s economy, despite
the many changes on the political horizon, was dominated by agriculture. The
development of the province’s professional class, even in urban areas, still paled
in comparison with other regions in the country.
Nonetheless, the optimism and political stability generated by five consec-
utive CCF victories made Saskatchewan an attractive destination for people
interested in participating in a culture of experimentation. The journalist
Ross Crockford remarked: “It was an age of bold experiments. . . . The pio-
neering spirit went beyond art and Medicare, though; it dared to explore the
brain, the psyche and dimensions that passeth all understanding. In the late
1950s, Saskatchewan was home to the largest LSD experiments in the world.”37
In the 1940s the province busied itself establishing the groundwork for re-
forms that would eventually make Saskatchewan a world leader in psychiatric
experimentation.
Psychiatric Services
In November 1946, Premier Douglas appointed a commissioner of mental
health ser vices who also acted as chief psychiatrist for the province. D. G.
(Griff) McKerracher came to Saskatchewan from the Ontario Health Depart-
ment following his ser vice as a medical doctor with the Canadian army during
the Second World War. McKerracher seized upon the opportunity to effect
changes in psychiatric ser vices.38
Part of McKerracher’s vision for psychiatric ser vices in Saskatchewan in-
volved recruiting psychiatrists to the region and facilitating the development of
an active research program. He felt the criteria for reaching this objective in
Saskatchewan’s postwar political climate had to focus on scientific research ini-
tiatives. One of his colleagues recalled McKerracher complaining that “psychia-
try suffered from being alienated from medicine. Medicine tended to be
something you could see through a microscope and you can’t see anything in
psychiatry through a microscope. You can’t lay hands on it; it is all ideas.” The
absence of empirical measures in psychiatry made it a more abstract medical
subject, which McKerracher felt dissuaded students from pursuing careers in
psychiatry and contributed to a lack of trained personnel in the field. McKer-
racher strongly urged a reconceptualization of mental health as an area indis-
tinguishable from general medicine, meaning that its treatment would take
place in a general hospital and general practitioners would play a more active
role in mental health care. Rather than providing health care in separate institu-
tions, which reinforced professional divisions, psychiatric medicine should
form an integral part of modern medicine, similar to many other medical sub-
specialities. Accomplishing this goal required a change in professional and lay
attitudes as well as the integration of appropriate care facilities into the general
health system.39
McKerracher was particularly committed to merging mental and physical
health care systems because of his underlying belief that attitudes toward
mental illnesses were too often shaped by misleading stereotypes. Psychiatric
illnesses carried significant social stigmas based on misconceptions that dis-
ordered behaviors resulted from weak characters or a dysfunctional upbring-
ing. 40 The shortage of professionals in combination with social stigmatization
meant that mental health care had often languished as a medical specialty
and remained a low priority for public spending. The enticement of major
health care reforms in the province, Douglas’s personal interest in mental
health, McKerracher’s commitment to administrative reforms, and the prom-
ise of new psychiatric research initiatives brought renewed optimism to the
field. McKerracher took advantage of this opportunity and began directing a
program of research in psychiatric ser vices that nurtured novel perspectives
in mental health. 41
Psychedelic Pioneers
Osmond arrived in Saskatchewan during this period of unbounded opti-
mism; he wasted no time launching his research anew from his position as
clinical director of the Saskatchewan Mental Hospital. Within a week of his ar-
rival, he met Abram Hoffer. The two men quickly established a pattern of regu-
lar correspondence that endured for the next forty years. John Smythies
continued to participate in the unfolding biochemical research and mescaline
experiments throughout the next two decades but spent only a short time in
Saskatchewan.42
Hoffer, like Osmond, was born in 1917, but he grew up in a small farming
community in Saskatchewan named after his father, Israel Hoffer.43 He also
took a different path into medicine. Abram Hoffer graduated from the provin-
cial university in Saskatoon with a bachelor of sciences degree in agricultural
chemistry in 1937. Three years later he completed a master’s degree in agricul-
ture and received an award allowing him to spend a year at the University of
Minnesota conducting research on cereal chemistry. Enamored with this sub-
ject, he continued in this field, graduating in 1944 with a PhD in agriculture.
His doctoral research had introduced him to the study of vitamins, particularly
vitamin B, and their effects on the human body. Having developed a strong
background in agricultural chemistry, Hoffer began studying biochemistry as
it pertained to medicine. In 1949, he completed his medical degree at the Uni-
versity of Toronto, where he had developed a par ticular interest in psychiatry.
On July 1, 1950, Hoffer was hired by the Saskatchewan Department of Public
Health to establish a research program in psychiatry for the province.44
Hoffer and Osmond soon joined forces and began collaborating on their mu-
tual research interests in biochemical experimentation. Osmond’s interest in
mescaline led him to LSD, which he discovered produced similar reactions to
those observed with mescaline. But LSD was a much more powerful drug. Early
Abram Hoffer. Hoffer earned a doctorate in agriculture before completing his medical
degree in 1949. He and Osmond collaborated on research with the Psychiatric Ser vices
Branch in Saskatchewan. Courtesy of Abram Hoffer.
trials indicated that the drug might have the potential to help advance a theory
of mental illness that promoted a biochemical explanation. Hoffer, Smythies,
and Osmond explained mental illness as a manifestation of metabolic dysfunc-
tion. If mental illness was in fact a biochemical entity, it could be studied (and
ultimately treated) using modern medical technology. And like physical ill-
nesses, mental illness might ultimately and literally be observable under a
microscope.
The research possibilities generated by Hoffer and Osmond’s theories at-
tracted other people to the province, where they eagerly contributed to the expan-
sion of biochemical studies. Osmond injected a flare of adventure and
cosmopolitanism into the small rural community and fascinated others with his
“bright ideas.”45 Hoffer’s superior administration skills helped secure research
grants for their work. In addition, Hoffer’s association with the provincial uni-
versity gave him regular access to medical students for teaching and research
purposes. As clinical investigations progressed, many believed that studies with
LSD offered demonstrable proof of the biochemical nature of mental illnesses
and supported the assertion that mental health care should be equal to that avail-
able for physical ailments. The stimulation of theories about mental health capti-
vated interests in this region that was politically committed to reshaping attitudes
toward health and its care. Support for LSD experimentation became part of a
regional commitment to health care reforms.
Throughout the process of establishing medical research in the province,
Premier Douglas reinforced the notion that cooperation and commitment to a
new publicly funded health care system was the linchpin that would reform the
province. Conscripting support at all levels of government, Douglas assured the
people of Saskatchewan that major health care reforms would chart a new fu-
ture for the region: “We are on the vanguard of public health on this continent,
because we have a health conscious people who regard health as something be-
yond price, who are convinced that health is a public utility and the right of
every individual in the nation.”46 Douglas campaigned for a universal health
care plan, one that provided access for all citizens and removed dependence on
insurers. Part of realizing this objective involved investing in medical
research.
Not everyone expressed enthusiasm for the government attention directed
toward drug experimentation. Some of Hoffer and Osmond’s colleagues felt
that this course of research received too much support and that, as a result,
other areas of study were neglected.47 The concentration on an experimental
theory went against mainstream thinking in psychiatry and risked having the
province endorse fruitless research endeavors.48 LSD experimentation nonethe-
less appealed to some psychiatrists and government officials as a legitimate
scientific endeavor that could lead to major breakthroughs in mental health
treatments.
Hoffer and Osmond used their LSD experiments to bolster a biochemical
theory of mental illness, while psychiatrists in other regions employed LSD for
different theoretical aims. They were not the only psychiatrists experimenting
with this drug during the 1950s, but their work benefited from the local support
they received. The political and cultural encouragement allowed them to inves-
tigate LSD with sustained attention. Because their experiments formed part of
the contemporaneous health care reforms, their research also had immediate
practical applications. Their close relationship with the provincial government
provided opportunities to test their theories that did not exist elsewhere. They
were internationally recognized as leaders within the field.
In 1955, Abram Hoffer boasted that Saskatchewan offered optimal condi-
tions for scientific research. He attributed this situation to a mixture of govern-
ment support and professional liberty. He claimed that researchers there
enjoyed an “unusually fertile climate for research—not in terms of temperature
or snow or wind, though Saskatchewan is prodigal with these—but a climate of
freedom.” He added that the “unique” environment in Saskatchewan would
undoubtedly make the province a world leader in medical research through its
capacity to attract top scientists and explore fresh ideas. The blend of political
and medical enthusiasm for innovation in post–World War II Saskatchewan at-
tracted professionals to the region and contributed to its reputation as an inter-
national leader in LSD studies.49
Saskatchewan in the 1950s also became an important laboratory for investi-
gating new public policies and medical ideas. People such as Osmond and Hof-
fer took advantage of these conditions and launched a research program that
challenged existing psychiatric and psychoanalytic explanations for mental dis-
orders. With professional and political support, they managed to weave their
research program into the political reforms in the region. As the program un-
folded, they attracted attention from outside the province, which initially fueled
their research agenda.
The ideological context shaped the research program in Saskatchewan as
well as its local reception. But their research was not inconsistent with broader
developments in the field of mental health. The increasing use of drugs in psy-
chiatry had a revolutionary influence on mental health treatments in the second
half of the twentieth century, and this trend relied, to a large extent, on changes
in the theory and practice of psychiatry. Psychiatric practice at midcentury has
often been described as existing at a crossroads: institutionally based practi-
tioners relied on somatic or bodily interventions that seemed outdated or prob-
lematic; community-based psychoanalysts used approaches that lacked a
biological foundation and did not seem to work, particularly with severe men-
tal illnesses. The LSD therapies developed in Saskatchewan did not fit neatly
into either category but instead reflected aspects of both approaches. This ap-
proach was infused with new ideas inspired by what became known as the
psychedelic experience.50
Psychedelic therapies relied both on a biochemical model of mental illness
and the scientific observation of a subjective experience. By combining these
two elements in one practice, Hoffer and Osmond presented their approach as a
new theory that merged philosophical and psychological traditions with bio-
medical advances. They distinguished themselves from the psychoanalysts,
whom they regarded as dogmatic therapists largely concerned with treating
middle- class patients, or the worried well. They also differed from psychophar-
macologists, who they felt were equally obsessed with the collection of data
without consideration for the deeper meanings of personal experience. Armed
with their own delicate mixture of biomedical and philosophical influences,
Hoffer and Osmond promoted an alternative to psychopharmacology and psy-
choanalysis with a method that incorporated the use of psychedelics as a means
for bridging some of the theoretical distance between these two models.
Psychiatry had a long tradition of using drugs, but during the postwar pe-
riod the number of psychopharmacological agents increased substantially.51
Somatic treatments, or bodily therapies, such as malaria, insulin- coma, and
electroconvulsive therapy, largely dominated North American psychiatry before
the Second World War; their declining use in the 1950s corresponded with an
increase in psychopharmacological treatments.52 Lobotomies and shock thera-
pies increasingly provoked concerns over the ethical implications of their use
and made patients, and some psychiatrists, apprehensive about the growing
margin of risk associated with invasive and irreversible treatments.53 The fail-
ure of somatic therapies when compared with psychopharmacological treat-
ments suggests that not only the technology and theories were altered in the
postwar period but also the cultural climate surrounding the reception of psy-
chiatric medicine. In the public mind, somatic therapies, particularly ECT and
lobotomies, were dangerous, irreversible, and painful. Drugs, which ostensibly
offered a safer and easier form of treatment, were more readily accepted by pa-
tients and their families.
Psychopharmacology, which eclipsed somatic therapies at midcentury, suc-
ceeded in overtaking psychoanalysis in the second half of the twentieth century.
The introduction of drugs did not initially threaten to overhaul psychoanalysis.
For example, psychoanalysts justified the use of some drugs that helped patients
ease into and out of therapy sessions, whether the drugs were tranquilizers, anti-
depressants, or even psychedelics. Psychoanalysts believed these substances as-
sisted in speeding up the critical development of the doctor-patient relationship
necessary for therapeutic breakthroughs. As drug treatments relied more on bio-
logical theories of mental disorder, the belief that the illness derived from an uni-
dentified brain lesion or neurochemical disruption challenged psychoanalytical
theories. Gradually, the increased dependence on drug treatments in psychiatry
eroded psychoanalytic paradigms and gave way to drug therapies or psychophar-

macological imperatives.
The class of drugs involved in the psychopharmacological revolution and the
theories underpinning their use depended on vastly different understandings
of the causation of mental disorder. Drugs provided psychiatrists with new tools
for studying human behavior and its potential biochemical causes. Chemical
research in the 1950s led to the introduction of new antibiotics, diuretics, anti-
hypertensives, and hypoglycemic agents, encouraging clinical researchers to
continue exploring the potential uses for chemical agents in other areas of
health.54
LSD research in Saskatchewan fit into these broader developments in psy-
chiatry and pharmacology. Ideas arising out of the LSD trials suggested that
mental illness had biological and social precedents and thus required treat-
ments tailored to both sets of needs. LSD offered people a conscious experience
that initially seemed to support theories from biochemists and from psychoana-
lysts. Hoffer and Osmond developed a psychedelic therapy that used chemicals
to trigger new perceptions of self. The psychedelic experience affected people
differently: some approached it philosophically; others insisted that the experi-
ence invoked changes in spirituality; and still others felt it modified their epis-
temological worldview. Regardless of the interpretation of the treatments’
subjective meaning, people regularly believed that the LSD experience funda-
mentally modified their being. In this way LSD treatments differed from most
other psychopharmacological therapies designed to treat a par ticular disorder.
During the 1950s, psychedelic psychiatry promised a consciousness-raising,
identity- changing therapy within a medically sanctioned and scientifically rig-
orous environment.
chapter two
Simulating Psychoses
“My 12 Hours as a Madman” appeared in Maclean’s, a national Canadian

magazine, in October 1953. In the article, the journalist Sidney Katz offered
readers a vivid description of his LSD experience in a hospital ward in Weyburn.
He was the first nonmedical participant to volunteer for an LSD experiment in
Saskatchewan. His article, like Huxley’s book about the mescaline reaction,
drew attention to the drug experiments being done in Saskatchewan. Katz con-
veyed some of the sensations that would become routinely identified as part of
an LSD reaction:
I will never be able to describe fully what happened to me during my excursion

into madness. There are no words in the English language designed to convey the
sensations I felt or the visions, illusions, hallucinations, colors, patterns and di-
mensions which my disordered mind revealed.
I saw faces of familiar friends turn into fleshless skulls and the heads of men-
acing witches, pigs and weasels. The gaily patterned carpet at my feet was trans-
formed into a fabulous heaving mass of living matter, part vegetable, part
animal. . . . I was repeatedly held in the grip of a terrifying hallucination in which
I could feel and see my body convulse and shrink until all that remained was a
hard sickly stone. . . . Time lost all meaning. . . . Mysterious flashes of multicol-
oured light came and went. The dimensions of the room, elasticlike, stretched
and shrank. . . . But my hours of madness were not all filled with horror and
frenzy. At times I beheld visions of dazzling beauty—visions so rapturous, so
unearthly, that no artist will ever paint them.1
Katz participated in this experiment in an effort to more widely publicize the

drug studies that were beginning to take shape in Weyburn.
When Katz took LSD that day in June 1953, Charles Jillings, Humphry
Osmond, Ben Stefaniuk, and Elaine Cumming monitored him throughout the
twelve-hour-long experiment. They explained to him before he took the drug
“10.45 a.m. The Ordeal Begins: Sidney Katz swallows a dose of drug LSD, closely
supervised by Saskatchewan mental health research scientists Charles Jillings,
Humphry Osmond, Ben Stefaniuk and Elaine Cumming.” From “My Twelve Hours as
a Madman,” by Sidney Katz, Maclean’s, October 1953. Photograph by Mike Kesterton;
used with permission.
“12.01 p.m. What a Madman Saw in Folds of a Towel: Dr. Osmond spread a towel on
Katz’ eyes and promised ‘a pleasant surprise.’ Instantly, he was transported to a temple
at the gates of paradise, in which paraded tiny Oriental empresses in gowns studded
with bright gems.” From “My Twelve Hours as a Madman,” by Sidney Katz, Maclean’s,
October 1953. Photograph by Mike Kesterton; used with permission.
“2.30 p.m. Chairs Floated Free as the Walls Moved: Writer is seen as the violent phase
ends. But nightmarish moments still blend into his periods of clarity.” From “My
Twelve Hours as a Madman,” by Sidney Katz, Maclean’s, October 1953. Photograph by
Mike Kesterton; used with permission. Illustration by Duncan Macpherson; Courtesy
of Dorothy Macpherson.
that they believed the LSD reaction mimicked schizophrenia. He reflected on

this theory during the reaction and revisited the idea a few days later when he
walked through the halls of the provincial mental hospital in Weyburn. He
agreed that after having had an LSD experience, he could more easily identify
with patients whose actions and behaviors had previously seemed bizarre or il-
logical. Katz concluded his article with the suggestion that this drug might
provide critical insights into the perceptions of schizophrenic patients and,
moreover, might lead medical researchers to the underlying biochemical causes
of the disease.2
Katz’s experiences in Weyburn marked the beginning of a new phase in the
LSD studies. For over a year, these studies had involved biochemical investiga-
tions in combination with a select group of individuals, composed almost exclu-
sively of medical researchers, who took the drug themselves. During these early
Simulating Psychoses 35
“12.30 p.m. ‘Describe it,’ Katz Was Urged: The doctors saw nothing but hospital
grounds. Katz beheld a carnival of bands, floats, elephants, knights and clowns.” From
“My Twelve Hours as a Madman,” by Sidney Katz, Maclean’s, October 1953. Photograph
by Mike Kesterton; used with permission.
trials, Osmond and Hoffer worked closely together and began developing their
hypotheses on the relationship between LSD-induced reactions and schizophre-
nia. By the time Katz joined Osmond in Weyburn, they were relatively confident
of their hypothesis and began broadening the studies and seeking a larger pool
of volunteers.
Early Experiments
Osmond first took mescaline in 1952, shortly after he arrived in Saskatch-
ewan. By then he had assembled a multidisciplinary research team and secured
funding for a project designed to continue the work begun in England, which
meant exploring the relationship between mescaline and adrenaline. Hoffer
was enthusiastic about the study, which would allow him to combine his inter-
ests in biochemistry and medicine. Hoffer’s background in biochemistry
excited Osmond as he searched for research colleagues who could bring differ-
ent skills to the venture. By mid-November Hoffer and Osmond were jointly
searching for funding. They met colleagues in Ottawa and pitched their research
program. Despite an enthusiastic response from the Ontario doctors, they re-
turned to Saskatchewan discouraged and without funding.3 Mescaline supplies
were already en route to Weyburn but the project had no funds to hire research-
ers. Before long, however, Griff McKerracher, director of psychiatric ser vices
in the province, delivered encouraging news: the Saskatchewan government
itself would support the research program and provide the necessary start-up
funds.4
With limited resources and a significant degree of uncertainty about the ef-
fects of the drug, Osmond volunteered to take the first mescaline samples him-
self, in the familiar surroundings of his home. Osmond’s reaction confirmed
his belief that with mescaline-induced experiences doctors could learn to ap-
preciate distortions in perception. On Osmond’s inaugural experiment, his
body’s reaction to the mescaline gave him firsthand experience of perceptual
disturbances. As the drug took effect, he went for a walk with his wife, Jane,
during which he was paranoid and was frightened by familiar stimuli. An ex-
cerpt from his report stated: “One house took my attention. It had a sinister
quality, since from behind its drawn shades, people seemed to be looking out
and their gaze was unfriendly. We met no people for the first few hundred
yards, then we came to a window in which a child was standing and as we drew
nearer its face became pig-like. I noticed two passers-by, who, as they drew
nearer, seemed hump-backed and twisted and their faces were covered. . . . The
wide spaces of the streets were dangerous, the houses threatening, and the sun
burned me.” Astounded by the drug’s capacity to suspend his sense of logic,
reality, and comfort, Osmond grew more determined than ever to collect others’
experiences.5
Osmond expanded the research program and started using LSD instead of
mescaline. Self- experimentation with LSD convinced him that the drug pro-
duced similar reactions to those observed with mescaline, but LSD was more
readily available from the Canadian branch of the Sandoz Pharmaceutical Com-
pany in Quebec. Moreover, LSD produced a more powerful reaction; minute
doses of LSD generated responses from subjects who required much higher
doses of mescaline. For a research program seeking a massive inventory of
drug-induced experiences, LSD offered a more potent and economical choice.
Before embarking on experimentation with normal subjects, however, Hof-
fer and Osmond needed to become more familiar with LSD themselves. In ad-
dition to conducting biochemical research on its relationship with the adrenaline
system, they continued exploring their own reactions to the drug. They also
began introducing it to close friends and relatives. Graduate students, col-
leagues, family friends, and doctors’ wives were some of the first volunteers for
the early trials. Humphry and Jane Osmond joined Abram and Rose Hoffer in
an evening visit enlivened by taking LSD. A few days later Osmond wrote to
Hoffer inquiring after Rose’s experience: “That stuff carries a punch like a
mule kick—the various responses are fascinating. Rose was clearly depressed
in the technical sense. Be sure to record it. I know it sounds detached to record
every bit of information about this monster [but it] is valuable—gold.”6 Although
some of these initial home experiments seem to be unsophisticated, unscien-
tific, and perhaps even recreational, Hoffer and Osmond took them very seri-
ously in an effort to become better acquainted with the often-indescribable
experiences generated by LSD.
Rose and Jane repeatedly participated in the LSD experiments.7 As the circle
of experimenters widened, wives frequently accompanied their husbands on
these exploratory missions. In addition to providing each other with compan-
ionship during the often-bizarre experience, the joint participation had practi-
cal advantages for experimental research. Amy Izumi, wife of the hospital
architect Kyoshi Izumi, recalled that she and her husband regularly discussed
challenges associated with his work. As taking LSD became an important part
of his job, Amy felt that she too needed to have an LSD experience in order to
understand how it affected his perspective. 8 Additionally, people often com-
plained that the experience was highly individualistic and difficult to describe.
Sharing the experience with a trusted partner helped maintain a level of com-
fort during the experiment and facilitated the composition of a follow-up report,
as the two people compared notes. The involvement of wives in the early experi-
ments also helped sidestep some of the ethical and practical issues associated
with recruiting volunteers; wives and friends did not receive remuneration.
By 1953, Hoffer reported that biochemical studies with LSD were progress-
ing. The biochemists determined that the LSD molecule contained nicotinic
acid, which seemed to antagonize, and perhaps even block, the metabolism of
specific enzymes. This organic process appeared to cause “changes in percep-
tion; changes in affect; and, changes in thinking.” By adjusting the levels of
nicotinic acid in the body, Hoffer demonstrated that it was possible to control
the perceptual reactions to LSD. He thus concluded that he could create an ex-
perimental schizophrenia, or a model psychosis, that would theoretically assist
in the further identification of discrete organic chemical processes causing the
illness.9
Osmond concentrated less on the biochemical investigations and more on
the psychological effects of LSD. He enthusiastically reported his results with
the preliminary inventory of LSD experiences and considered them a success.

The early trials had effectively familiarized the research group with the effects
of LSD and mescaline. Repeat experiments gave them an opportunity to adjust
the doses and determine the optimum quantities. They discovered that most
subjects had a profound experience after ingesting a dose of LSD that ranged
from 100 to 200 micrograms. Generally, subjects mixed the liquefied drug into
a glass of water and drank the mixture (although, Osmond discovered that the
same effects occurred when LSD was absorbed by the skin or injected into the
body directly). Normally, the effects of the drug lasted from six to eight hours;
some people reported that they had an enduring sense of clarity for several days
following the experiment. Osmond was satisfied that these results showed
promise that the drug was safe and an invaluable tool for evaluating psychoses.
He remained convinced that schizophrenia was primarily a disorder of percep-
tion, which stemmed from a combination of biological dysfunction and a cor-
responding abnormal distortion in perception. He believed that further LSD
trials would present the evidence necessary to more fully investigate the origins
and consequences of distorted perceptions.10
Model Psychoses
The promising results of nearly two years of experimentation with mesca-
line and LSD convinced Hoffer and Osmond that they were on the cutting edge
of psychiatric research. If they could prove their biochemical theory of schizo-
phrenia and identify a chemical process capable of reversing the reaction, they
could ostensibly cure schizophrenia. The implications of their research pro-
gram were extremely significant. Confident that they were operating under
progressive theoretical conditions, Hoffer and Osmond prepared to enlarge the
study.
During this phase of their research, Hoffer and Osmond actively publicized
news about their LSD experiments and recruited local volunteers to take part in
the trials. They needed to amass a collection of LSD reactions from normal sub-
jects in order to draw comparisons with schizophrenic patients’ perspectives.
The second inventory, involving actual patients’ perspectives, demanded a dif-
ferent approach that would come later. Building on expertise gained from the
early trials, Hoffer and Osmond began seeking volunteers.
The LSD trials adopted a twofold approach to recruitment: Hoffer, who oper-
ated out of the University of Saskatchewan, appealed to students and members
of the surrounding community in Saskatoon. Osmond drew volunteers from
the pool of mental health workers in Weyburn. Their recruitment strategies

also served to distribute information about their research program in the prov-
ince. In addition to these centers for experimentation, research psychologists
Duncan Blewett and Nick Chwelos joined the program and conducted trials in
Regina. Over the next decade a number of psychologists and psychiatrists (e.g.,
Colin Smith, Neil Agnew, Sven Jensen, Mary Bailey, and Ray Denson) contrib-
uted to the growing catalog of experiences.11 The collection of psychedelic expe-
riences derived from thousands of LSD experiments conducted at various
locations throughout Saskatchewan. As news of this program spread, reports
sent in from research centers in British Columbia and from various locations
throughout the United States and Great Britain supplemented their study.
At the outset of the clinical trials, Hoffer and Osmond were not sure how to
recruit volunteers; they were pleasantly surprised by the number of willing par-
ticipants. Hoffer addressed a mental health section of the Junior Chamber of
Commerce in Regina and made his first call for volunteers. In a room of twenty
attendees, eighteen eagerly volunteered; they became some of the first subjects
in the trial. Hoffer and Neil Agnew scrutinized each volunteer by inquiring
about their medical history and their knowledge of psychiatry before subjecting
them to a physical examination and a Rorschach test.12 Anyone with a history of
liver problems was excluded from the exercise due to the uncertainties about
how the drug was metabolized.13 This trial with normals confirmed Hoffer’s
suspicion that nicotinic acid, whether administered before or during the LSD
reaction, affected the intensity of the hallucinogenic experience.
Meanwhile in Weyburn, Osmond continued to concentrate on evaluating the
perceptual experiences described by LSD experimenters. His own LSD reac-
tions made him believe that individuals working in the field of mental health
benefited from cultivating deeper insights into mental illness, readily available
by taking LSD: “I think we will soon have an excellent case for asking Psychia-
trists in training to take mescaline, LSD, etc. The analysts say that before one
can analyse one must know one’s personal components and have an experience
in analysis oneself. If this is true, it would seem equally justifiable to ask the
Psychiatrists to take mescaline or LSD.” Osmond felt that an LSD experience
offered mental health workers an improved understanding of the patients’ view
of the environment. Consequently, he encouraged doctors, nurses, social work-
ers, and other health care professionals to experience LSD in a clinical setting
in an effort to offer more empathetic care to patients. He took the same precau-
tions that Hoffer used to screen suitable subjects for his trials, and these mea-
sures were continuously refined as they learned more about the drugs.14
Psychedelic drugs, according to Osmond, helped generate empathy toward

patients with psychotic symptoms by presenting experimenters with an experi-
ence that distorted their perceptions and challenged them to think carefully
about the ways that patients acted or the things they said. Osmond defended
this approach explaining that “even the best written book must fail to transmit
an experience which many claim is uncommunicable, and the doctor often
wishes that he could enter the illness and see with a madman’s eyes, hear with
his ears, and feel with his skin. This might seem an unlikely privilege, but it is
available to anyone who is prepared to take a small quantity of the alkaloid mes-
caline, or a minute amount of the ergot-like substance, Lysergic acid [LSD].” By
appealing to a sense of duty and commitment to patients, Osmond recruited
nurses, social workers, psychologists, and psychiatrists from the Weyburn re-
gion to participate in the LSD experiments.15
Generally, experiments were scheduled for an eight-hour period. To qualify
for the exercise, subjects needed to first pass a medical examination, which in-
cluded specific measures outlined in Hoffer’s first trial. A presiding psychia-
trist administered the screening tests before each experiment. The trial often
began at nine o’clock in the morning and took place in a hospital office or a pri-
vate room in a ward. Subjects were encouraged to arrive after breakfast with an
open mind and a relaxed attitude. They received some briefing, which fre-
quently involved an explanation of the anticipated effects as observed in the
early trials (though, due to the individualistic nature of the experience doctors
complained that it was difficult to present information about the drug’s effects
without running the risk of making the subject susceptible to the powers of
suggestion). Before ingesting the LSD, subjects were required to sign a consent
form that released the investigators and institutions from any legal responsibil-
ity for untoward effects arising out of the trials.16 With doctors and nurses
present at all times, the subjects received a dose of LSD between 100 and 200
micrograms and waited for a reaction.
Transcripts from these trials indicate that subjects had a variety of experi-
ences, ranging from intense but generally pleasant hallucinations and spiritual
journeys, to moderate reactions producing unjustifiable bouts of laughter, to
more nightmarish hallucinations involving disturbing distortions of reality. Very
few subjects reported experiencing no effects at all.17 Although reactions to the
drug differed, most participants deemed the experience beneficial. For example,
one volunteer reported that “the experience was a very profound one for me.
Reading this account will not produce the intense feelings I experienced.”18 In
most cases the trial was documented with a tape recorder and the doctor or
nurse present took notes based on observations of the subject’s reactions. On

some occasions the doctor or nurse joined the experiment and took a dose of
LSD along with the volunteer.19 This activity arguably made subjects more com-
fortable in the trial and frequently led to open discussions about the drug’s reac-
tions during the experiment, where previously subjects had often remained
largely withdrawn.
Following the eight-hour trial, psychiatrists encouraged subjects to write
their own descriptions of their experience and reflect upon its value. One psy-
chiatric nurse wrote that “the social graces are difficult to perform; may be for-
gotten and not remembered till later. One feels rather ‘boorish’ and is aware and
sorry for this, but is unable to do much about it.”20 Others emphasized an ap-
preciation for visual distortions produced by the drug. A nursing student re-
ported after returning from a bathroom on the ward: “ ‘I hate it in here. It’s so
dark and I feel so closed in.’ [She] said later that she was actually afraid, and that
sick people, especially schizophrenics, shouldn’t use that bathroom.”21 Another
report indicated a growing feeling of paranoia directed at the presence of the
psychiatrists in the room. Although the subject recognized that his fears were
part of his reaction to the drug, he nonetheless became keenly aware of the
power relationships in the situation, as he increasingly felt vulnerable to sug-
gestions from authority figures.22 Commonly, observers indicated an inability
to judge time or distances; most subjects reported difficulty organizing and
communicating their thoughts. This was felt most acutely during the experi-
ment, but the follow-up reports also identified this obstacle.
Some subjects reported experiences that held spiritual meaning for them.
One student, for example, identified himself as agnostic and yet described his
LSD reaction as overwhelmingly spiritual. He summarized his feelings about
the experience: “The visual hallucinations played a relatively small part, that it
was mainly a ‘mystical,’ ‘religious,’ and ‘spiritual’ experience. The feelings of
intense bliss, freedom, of being at one with God, created an enormous psycho-
logical impact on me.”23 These comments frequently reinforced the declaration
that experiences were difficult to describe with words because they involved a
complex, and often overpowering, assault on the senses that stripped subjects
of their sense of logic or reason.
Observations from these trials led to a belief that LSD was capable of produc-
ing a “transcendental feeling of being united with the world.”24 It had a
mind-manifesting effect that could lead to personal insight, transcendence,
spiritual enlightenment, or a combination of these feelings. These kinds of in-
terpretations confirmed Osmond’s supposition that LSD led to greater insights
into the distortion of perception and that these conditions could cause subjects
to behave in a manner that seemed odd or irrational relative to social customs.
The experiments with normals provided further evidence that LSD experi-
mentation generated useful insights into the nature of perceptual disturbances,
which manifested themselves differently and seemed to be based on an indi-
vidual’s personality, values, and expectations. The volunteer reports presented
firsthand descriptions and clearly identified the difficulty people had in qualify-
ing, measur ing, or merely explaining the experience. The observers’ reports il-
luminated the disjuncture between the subject’s experience and the observer’s
analysis. In most cases, the subjects remained withdrawn, sometimes appeared
frightened or even depressed. Yet, overwhelmingly, subjects reported that these
labels did not match their own impressions of the experience. These conclu-
sions, however difficult to measure, convinced Hoffer and Osmond that they
needed some method of comparing the experiences described by normal sub-
jects with patients’ accounts of schizophrenia.
Patients’ Perspectives
In 1958, a psychologist from the University of Kansas who had finished his
first summer of teaching in Sweden came to Weyburn to begin studying patient
populations. Robert Sommer had a keen interest in understanding people’s spa-
tial perceptions and how these conceptions affected behavior. After arriving in
Weyburn, Sommer initiated studies of institutionalized patients’ perceptions of
space. He worked closely with Osmond and observed the relationships patients
living in the Weyburn institution had with their family members and with peo-
ple in the surrounding community. Sommer implemented a letter-writing cam-
paign that encouraged patients and community members to correspond with
each other. He determined that the perception of social distance diminished as
patients felt connected with the community outside the hospital. He also found,
however, that the longer patients remained in the institution the less interest
they had in communicating with anyone.25
This study piqued Sommer’s interest in the effects of institutionalization
and made him a good candidate for establishing criteria for measur ing patients’
perceptual disturbances, including spatial observations. Both Osmond and
Sommer were keen to devise a method for evaluating patients’ perceptions, but
they were aware that this research plan required careful consideration concern-
ing research criteria. Patients often provided their perspectives in the presence
of their doctors, which Osmond and Sommer determined could easily influence
a patient’s manner of communication. Furthermore, the importance of study-

ing patients’ written descriptions of their disorders had been dismissed by
some doctors as a useless collection of “tiresome vapourings of paranoid and
disgruntled people whose embittered stories would not, we feel, be typical.” In
such cases, patients’ perspectives filtered through their doctors would be unsat-
isfactory. Sommer also feared that despite assertions to the contrary in the in-
terview setting, patients might feel that they were being examined or judged.26
Eventually, Osmond and Sommer settled on an approach that involved a
thorough investigation and categorization of former mental patients’ autobiog-
raphies. After collecting hundreds of writing samples, they established the cri-
teria for selecting the most appropriate data. They excluded all works of fiction,
secondhand accounts other than those composed by a dedicated scribe (as op-
posed to a biographer who might have added interpretive analysis), descriptions
that did not include reference to hospitalization, autobiographies unconcerned
with perceptions of illness, brief or unpublished compositions, and non–En-
glish language reports. The resulting collection for the study included accounts
from patients who had been hospitalized; “frank” autobiographies; and descrip-
tions overtly focused on illustrating mental illness or institutionalization. Their
selections excluded some classic texts, including The Snake Pit and Shutter of
Snow. But Osmond and Sommer were convinced that their methodological
choices provided them with reasonably fair accounts of patients’ perspectives.27
The resulting collection consisted of thirty-seven titles, involving twenty-five
male and twelve female authors. A group comprised of lay and professional par-
ticipants examined the material and subsequently constructed an analysis of
patients’ perceptions. The investigators commonly found that authors described
a desire to suppress or ignore sensory data that seemed incongruent with cul-
tural norms. They also discovered that these authors often revealed a sophisti-
cated understanding of the psychological theories explaining their illness, and
some patients even offered their own interpretations. Overall, Sommer and
Osmond concluded that this kind of study presented mental health profession-
als with a rich, untapped resource for investigating the subjective experience of
mental illness.28
The examination of patients’ autobiographies also presented evidence con-
firming Osmond’s assumptions about the similarities between LSD reactions
and patients’ experiences. He and Sommer reported that “the reader receives
the impression that each author considers his experiences unique and beyond
the realm of comparison. This is a similar attitude to many of those who have
taken mescaline or LSD. They do not see how one experience can validly be
compared with another.” The results of this literary analysis persuaded Osmond
to continue exploring the two sets of experiences in tandem. He felt that the
remarkable consistencies among the experiences shed further light on the pro-
gression of illness. Moreover, a concentration on perceptual disturbances pro-
vided psychiatrists with alternative methods for observing the onset of mental
illness.29
The next phase of the research program involved analyzing the results of the
autobiographical study in combination with the LSD experiences of normals,
and finally, administering LSD to recovered patients who volunteered to com-
pare the two experiences (their own natural psychosis and the LSD-precipitated
model psychosis). The ongoing LSD experiments in Regina, Weyburn, and Sas-
katoon already seemed to support Hoffer and Osmond’s position that the expe-
riences were generally similar. Sommer and Osmond’s study appeared to offer
reasonable evidence to strengthen this conviction. In the late 1950s, they began
selecting patient volunteers for the express purpose of comparing experiences.
Patients underwent a screening process that was similar to the one used for
normals, but they had to meet the additional criterion of having recovered from
schizophrenia.30
Patients’ reports following their LSD trials confirmed suspicions that the
two experiences were virtually interchangeable. Indeed, some subjects com-
mented that the simple realization that LSD was triggering distortions in their
perception made the experience more comfortable, particularly because they
could accept the disturbances in perception and anticipate the termination of
the experience. Several subjects felt that the LSD reaction allowed them to re-
flect upon their past illness with greater insight and clarity; in other words, the
reminiscent feelings had some therapeutic effect. These critical perspectives
assisted in cementing local support for Hoffer and Osmond’s research program.
They now had evidence to link the various projects together, and they began
circulating their theories more widely.31
By combining the results of the autobiographical study with the provincewide
collection of normals’ reactions to LSD and Hoffer’s biochemical investigations,
the research program in Saskatchewan appeared to make significant clinical
advancements. Although their initial hypotheses had been tentative, the results
after nearly a decade of enquiry on these three fronts gave them greater confi-
dence. Convinced that they were on the verge of a major breakthrough in psy-
chiatric, and indeed medical, research, Hoffer and Osmond decided to advertise
their theories more aggressively. By continuing to refine the model psychosis
in combination with collecting patients’ perspectives, Hoffer and Osmond felt
they had developed a satisfying and valid methodology for incorporating pa-
tients’ perspectives in psychiatric research. They also believed they had added
valuable new theoretical and practical resources to the discipline and hoped that
their colleagues outside Saskatchewan would welcome these contributions.
Professional Challenges
By the late 1950s, Hoffer and Osmond began presenting their research re-
sults more confidently. They stimulated medical debates with the provocative
assertion that schizophrenia was a biochemical illness that produced a primary
disturbance in perception. Their theory stood in contrast to the more estab-
lished psychoanalytic and psychosomatic approaches, both of which carried
significant professional currency. As news about the Saskatchewan research
program spread, Hoffer and Osmond found themselves forced to defend their
research to a medical community that remained unconvinced of their findings.
At first, the majority of their colleagues had simply ignored their work. Hoffer
thought this was due to their relatively isolated research environment; more es-
tablished research units in urban centers simply did not pay attention to work
being done in Saskatchewan. While Osmond agreed that their professional iso-
lation might be partly responsible, he suggested that the more significant factor
lay in a general attitude of conservatism within the medical community, in
North America and in Britain.32
Initially, they had presented their own approach as a middle position between
psychoanalysts and biological psychiatrists. After attending the American Psy-
chiatric Association’s annual meeting in 1955, Hoffer detected a shift away from
the psychoanalytical method and toward biological models of mental illness. He
reported to his director, McKerracher, that “this may be a retrograde step and we
will have to try and retain the philosophy of the analysts, which has been very
useful, and to improve upon it instead of denying it any virtue whatever.” Psy-
choanalysis, according to Hoffer, remained sympathetic to the importance of
personal experience in therapy. Moreover, the therapist-patient relationship in
both psychoanalytic and psychedelic approaches was defined by a concerted
effort to generate empathy by attempting to replicate the patients’ experience.
Finally, psychoanalysts incorporated LSD into their treatment sessions as an ad-
junct to therapy. Rather than criticizing contemporary psychoanalytic perspec-
tives (something he would later do), Hoffer initially employed a more pragmatic
strategy hoping to generate interest among disillusioned analysts as well as
psychopharmacologists.33
Osmond shared Hoffer’s understanding of the dramatic shift under way in

psychiatry. He too recognized the waning of psychoanalysis within the profes-
sion and regarded it as a tremendous opportunity for advancing new theories.
By the end of the decade, the two psychedelic researchers distanced themselves
from the psychoanalysts and more emphatically placed their own approach in
line with the advancing psychopharmacological paradigm. Osmond wrote to
Hoffer, “I hope by the mid 1960s the psychiatric revolution will be well on its
way. It is fascinating to be seeing it from the inside.” In the same letter he ex-
plained that “the death of a theory, even if it isn’t much of a theory, makes peo-
ple immensely uncomfortable because they fear and feel that law and order [are]
about to disappear.” Osmond felt it was imperative to present their biochemical
theory at that time in order to fill the void left behind by the discredited
psychoanalysis.34
As they grew more convinced of this strategy, Hoffer bravely asserted that
the only reason the psychoanalysts flourished in the United States was be-
cause they themselves had filled an earlier theoretical void. In par tic u lar, he
felt that the American profession was less developed than the field in Eu rope,
and as German doctors sought sanctuary in the United States during World
War II, they established a false sense of ideological and theoretical supremacy,
when, in fact, their approach had no real scientific legitimacy. In 1966, Hof-
fer’s disdain for psychoanalysts hardened. He complained that “they have no
facts, no data, no science and so they must collapse very easily and quickly.
Our attack will merely add to their demise.” His bold assertion further under-
scored his growing confidence in the importance of their biochemical-
psychological theory. And his personal shift in perspective revealed the
changing orientation of the profession.35
Despite Hoffer and Osmond’s quiet rejoicing at the noticeable decline of the
psychoanalytical perspective in the mid-1960s, they held firm to their conten-
tion that in order to truly modernize psychiatry, theory and practice needed to
be married. To this end, they repeatedly reiterated the importance of drawing
patients’ perspectives into the research environment before employing theoreti-
cal frameworks that risked ignoring vital signs of illness detectable only by lis-
tening to patients. For as much as the analysts cherished the idea of self-analysis
as a means of cultivating empathy, Hoffer and Osmond doubted that even the
keenest of psychoanalysts had any real sense of a psychotic patient’s experi-
ences. Therefore, listening to patients demanded acknowledging the perceived
reality of their experiences, no matter how difficult. Psychoanalysis failed, ac-
cording to Osmond, not only because it lacked scientific methodology but also
because it focused on nonpsychotic mental disorders. In other words, free as-

sociation and couch confessions of the worried well had very little to offer pa-
tients experiencing psychoses that often involved inconceivable and indescribable
experiences.36
Meanwhile psychotic disorders in general and schizophrenia in particular re-
ceived sustained attention from North American clinical researchers during this
period. The previous domination of psychoanalytical theories had paid relatively
little attention to the major psychotic disorders, and biological and psychophar-
macological clinicians initially distinguished themselves by concentrating on the
major psychotic symptoms. Additionally, living outside of the institutional envi-
ronment was particularly difficult for patients with psychotic symptoms, which
left a larger proportion of patients with psychotic disorders in the institution and,
thus, under closer scrutiny and care of the medical profession. In North America,
schizophrenia was more commonly diagnosed in the postwar period than other
major mental illnesses, which contributed to the feeling that disorders such as
schizophrenia were increasing among the general population. Hoffer and Os-
mond further distanced themselves from the psychoanalysts by focusing on the
experiences of patients exhibiting psychotic symptoms.37
Their insistence on incorporating psychotic experiences into the therapeu-
tic environment worked against contemporary trends in psychopharmacology.
By the early 1950s, clinical researchers engaged in pharmaceutical research
that increasingly embraced methodologies designed to enhance objective
measures and reduce subjective “distractions.” The integration of medical
statistics and the quest for empirical measurements in psychiatry became
dominant features in the evolution of clinical drug trials. One reason for this
emphasis on objective measurements was a desire to minimize corrupting
influences, including profit- driven enterprises, overzealous researchers, and
unsophisticated observers. During this decade, drug researchers introduced a
variety of controls on experiments in an effort to satisfy these concerns.
Double-blind trials, for example, relied on separating subjects into two or
more groups and administering the experimental substance (or therapy) with
neither the subjects nor the presiding clinicians’ knowledge of which indi-
viduals received the potent agent. Other research designs simply used two
separate groups of subjects; each group received a different form of treatment
and a comparative analysis determined which approach offered better results.
Controlled trials also increasingly relied on larger samples and more sophisti-
cated statistical analysis to evaluate the efficacy of a drug. The overall effect of
these changes in research design created what historian Harry Marks has
described as “an ideological cult of impersonality, in which researchers sought

to purge scientific observations of individual subjectivity.”38
Psychedelic psychiatry, by contrast, depended on an appreciation for immea-
surable perceptions to guide the therapeutic process. Accordingly, psychiatrists
such as Hoffer and Osmond resisted the trend toward controlled trials that
tended to minimize the importance of the individual experience. They felt that
the significance of perception (which included both physiological sensations
and psychological interpretations of experiences) fundamentally affected the
reporting of symptoms by patients, as well as their evaluation by clinicians.
Consequently, statistical analyses and research methods designed to identify
commonalities in experience could not satisfactorily account for the way that
symptoms affected patients’ sense of self. To Hoffer and Osmond, faith in con-
trolled trials, the new gold standard in psychiatric medicine, was merely an il-
lustration of misplaced authority in empiricism with little or no demonstrated
practical benefits for patients. This scientific trend, they argued, led to the in-
corporation of new technologies, devices, and methods that conveyed a superfi-
cial image of advancement within the profession. Other fields of medicine could
legitimately claim improvements with new technologies such as the X-ray ma-
chine because the incorporation of this device matched theoretical and clinical
objectives. Psychiatry, on the other hand, was poised to accept new methodolo-
gies, such as controlled trials, prematurely. Without a satisfactory integration of
medical theory to explain the causation of mental illness and clinical evidence
to support the theory, controlled trials and many resultant psychiatric medi-
cines provided, in their minds, limited advantages for patients.
By the early 1960s, while they continued to level insults at the fading sup-
porters of psychoanalysis, they also began distinguishing themselves more
clearly from psychopharmacological approaches. Hoffer conveyed his frustra-
tions with the contemporary state of the profession in a letter to Osmond:
Psychiatry has not been blessed with scientists who have the right kind of empiri-
cism and creativity. We have on the one hand a small group of pragmatists who
almost by error have discovered newer treatments like [Ugo] Cerletti, [Manfred]
Sakel, [Ladislas von] Meduna, [Henri] Laborit and others. But they were able
against opposition to introduce these as acceptable treatments. But each treat-
ment, apart from giving confidence to the biologists, did not add much to the
general theory of psychiatry. On the other hand, we have a small but vocal group
of theorists who refuse to develop testable ideas—the analysts. To them it is suf-
ficient that Freud said so. Rather than face the criticism of medicine and science
they have withdrawn into a philosophy of their own—a circular and self-fulfilling
one. In between we have a large group of assistants to the pharmaceutical houses.
Here I include people who do clinical testing of ideas and of drugs generated by
drug firms. This is why it is so extraordinarily difficult to get much interest in the
real scientific approach.39
Summarizing his major criticisms of the dominant approaches in modern psy-

chiatry, Hoffer implied that the contemporary rejection of the biochemical
model of schizophrenia had little to do with science and more to do with the
unwillingness of the profession to endorse his research design. Moreover, he
lamented that the disjuncture between theory and practice produced disparate
fields of inquiry with limited room for reconciliation.
Meanwhile, Osmond maintained that neither psychosomatic nor psy-
chopharmacological approaches had advantages over his own approach. He
opined that these related fields of inquiry faced a different situation. Physi-
cians subscribing to these models were fascinated with applying scientific
methodologies in a frenetic attempt to develop better instruments and sys-
tems of measurement. In these approaches, however, research objectives
were perverted into a contest for acquiring new ways of collecting and mea-
sur ing data with very little regard given to why the data were being accumu-
lated in the first place. Advocates of large- scale and controlled trials, Osmond
contended, often relied on scientific methodologies that depended on assem-
bling observable data without adequately accommodating immeasurable
qualities such as subjective experiences. 40
In this vein he lamented the emerging postwar belief that drug experiments
were somehow unethical if they did not apply controlled trials: “Many variables
may be held more or less steady, but the pretentious, inaccurate and misleading
use of the word ‘control’ should surely be abandoned and editorial authority
could properly be exerted here. Its use has become absurd.” He explained his
position by illustrating that faith in the control relaxes the pressure on the ob-
server and the ingenuity demanded of the experimenter, and places undue em-
phasis on concern for isolating reactions. As a result, the mark of a successful
trial had more to do with the capacity of the research designers to isolate a par-
ticular reaction. Osmond recommended that experiments should be devised to
measure all effects first and apply controls as necessary. By devising a controlled
environment, clinicians privileged the importance of some symptoms over oth-
ers, before allowing the patient or subject the opportunity to participate in the
prioritization of changes brought upon by a par ticular experiment.41
Hoffer’s and Osmond’s critiques of controlled drug trials rested on three

main themes. One, the mere practice of gathering data was purposeless and
expensive unless it connected with an overarching theoretical objective. Sec-
ond, controlled trials did not allow investigators an opportunity to examine un-
anticipated effects. Finally, dependence on controlled trials for evidence
underestimated the importance of observation and undermined the role of per-
ception in medical research.
They held similar views on the growing popularity of the double-blind ex-
periment, regarding it as a valuable tool for the pharmaceutical industry but a
rather useless exercise for psychiatric research. By relying on double-blinds the
results of mass drug trials were more easily analyzed and statistically robust.
They did not require either sophisticated experimental designs or skilled ob-
servers. Osmond warned, however, that the increasing faith in these approaches
also produced very limited clinical evidence. The kinds of results were invaria-
bly predetermined by the drug manufacturers who needed to quickly amass
evidence about the efficacy of a drug to achieve national regulatory approval. He
argued that the controls should be removed from experiments in an effort to
more comprehensively evaluate the effects of a drug before placing it on the
market.
Hoffer and Osmond published their opinions about the growing insistence
on controlled drug trials in 1961, while simultaneously introducing their own
work as an alternative model.42 The article generated interest and the majority
of correspondents agreed with them in principle. For example, one neurophar-
macologist disagreed with Hoffer and Osmond’s use of statistical theory but
nonetheless shared their trepidation over the increased faith in controlled trials.
In his estimation, the double-blind trial offered very limited evidence to the
clinical researcher; ultimately it only demonstrated whether or not a drug cre-
ated a reaction. This research design, however, could not anticipate the potential
dangers associated with a drug but provided enough information to make the
drugs marketable. Hoffer complained that “many believe all one has to do is to
place all the ‘facts’ into a hopper and out will come the answer.” He thought that
the integration of medical statistics into clinical research dehumanized and
impersonalized medical pursuits.43
John Smythies, who had taken up a research position at the University of Brit-
ish Columbia in the mid-1950s, cautioned Osmond about his views on the use of
controlled trials and suggested that he temper his allegations. Smythies ac-
knowledged that the use of what he once despairingly referred to as the double-
dummy design posed challenges for evaluating reactions to LSD because the
profundity of responses was so significant that neither the observer nor the sub-
ject had any doubts about whether the placebo or LSD had been administered.
But in a letter to Osmond, he said, “I do not think that you can afford at the mo-
ment to start a campaign to change the style of scientific papers. . . . I always
think it is wise if you present unorthodox views in psychiatry to present them
clothed in orthodox language.” He further recommended to Osmond that “the
onus is not on them to confirm your results by personal experiment but on you
to design your experiments properly so that your results carry immediate
conviction.”44
In spite of Smythies’s warnings, Hoffer maintained his vocal opposition to
the use of double-blind controlled trials. He pointed to his own research and
recalled the retroactive damage caused by an overanxious application of controls
on the Saskatchewan research program. He asserted that “it became widely
‘known’ our work was disproven because we had not run it double blind. Papers
from Mayo Clinic and from Germany confirming us were discredited because
they were not run double blind. Finally, between 1960–62 Czech psychiatrists
ran double blinds and supported everything we had said.” Furthermore, he de-
plored the way that controls reduced the trials to an impersonal experiment in
which neither the subject nor the observer learned very much.45
Hoffer and Osmond were not the only investigators who struggled to apply
the proper controls on their psychedelic studies. While some of the contempo-
rary research programs undoubtedly displayed a lack of concern for designing a
controlled-trial environment, others took pains to demonstrate that LSD could
be evaluated in this context. In spite of concerted efforts to work with control
groups or maintain follow-up standards, psychedelic studies were routinely
criticized in the medical literature for failing to employ standard scientific
practices.46
In spite of such criticisms, Hoffer and Osmond enjoyed support from within
Saskatchewan. Inside this local sanctuary, they were able to continue experi-
menting with LSD, refining the model psychosis, and exploring the therapeutic
value of the drug. Although psychedelic psychiatry prescribed a different kind
of drug therapy than other more widely accepted psychopharmacological sub-
stances, Hoffer and Osmond remained convinced that the blend of philosophi-
cal and physiological benefits involved in LSD therapy would eventually convince
their colleagues of the advantages of a drug therapy that mixed theoretical
traditions.
During their initial LSD experiments, Hoffer and Osmond discovered that
the drug had some therapeutic benefits even when it was not being tested for
such results. This observation prompted them to initiate another avenue of re-
search: employing LSD as a specific therapeutic agent. Experiments with nor-
mal subjects demonstrated the drug’s enormous capacity to bring people to
new levels of self-awareness. That is, following an LSD experience some people
felt that they had gained a different perspective on their role in the community,
their family, or society in general. Some described this enduring feeling as a
new sense of spirituality whereas others contended that the change in attitude
was essentially philosophical. Hoffer and Osmond wondered if this change in
attitude could have some effect on changing an individual’s behavior or habits.
Beginning in 1953, they slowly began introducing the drug to nonschizophrenic
patients. In par ticular, they wanted to test its curative effects on alcoholics who,
according to temperance reformers, simply required more will power and
self-actualization. Perhaps, they reasoned, the LSD reaction could cultivate that
strength and insight.
While they remained committed to monitoring adrenaline production in or-
ganic and chemically stimulated behavioral reactions, the experience generated
by the LSD reaction presented fertile territory for further clinical investigation.
Reactions to the drug seemed to trigger perceptual responses that provided
subjects with personal insights, even a sense of enlightenment. The powerful
chemical experiences kept Hoffer and Osmond fixated on exploring the thera-
peutic value of the LSD experience.
chapter three
Highs and Lows
After the initial round of LSD experiments, Hoffer and Osmond soon con-
sidered testing psychedelic drugs as a potential cure for alcoholism. Alcoholism
was increasingly seen as a medical problem rather than a moral failing. Medical
and social attention to “problem drinking” received a renewal of interest follow-
ing the repeal of Prohibition in the United States in the 1930s. Alcoholics
Anonymous (AA), an organization devoted to fraternal support for people suf-
fering from excessive drinking and related lifestyle problems, was also estab-
lished in the 1930s. By the time Hoffer and Osmond proposed a psychedelic
therapy for alcoholics, AA had become known as the best option for people try-
ing to overcome their addiction. For a brief moment though, LSD treatments
promised even greater rates of recovery.1
During the 1930s, alcoholism was subject to an expanding medical discourse
that increasingly conceptualized many aspects of inappropriate social behavior
as illnesses. E. M. Jellinek at Yale University launched a new field of alcohol
studies that not only advanced medical authority in an area previously governed
by excessive politicization and moral reform campaigns but also extended a new
degree of social authority and leadership to scientists. Consequently, medical
research expanded and the problem of alcoholism increasingly came under the
authority of medical experts. The Yale group’s investigations suggested that
drunkenness was in fact a disease that deserved treatment and not moral con-
demnation. These new research initiatives helped deliver alcoholism from the
political to the medical arena, with a variety of consequences.2
Treating alcoholism as a medically defined disease carried with it important
fiscal implications for governments, particularly those engaged in building
health systems. The acceptance of alcoholism as a disease was critical for legiti-
mizing state-funded treatment centers in postwar Britain. The combined medi-
cal and political validation of alcoholism as a disease represented a shift in
cultural attitudes away from alcoholism as a product of moral weaknesses.
Medical authorities made decisions that dictated which disorders received treat-
ment in the health care system. Debates over whether alcoholism existed as a
clinical disease or a moral problem therefore had significant implications in
Saskatchewan as the provincial government moved forward with plans for de-
veloping a publicly funded health care system.3
Concerns over the conceptualization of drunkenness escalated during the
postwar period. Conceiving alcoholism as a disease assisted in expanding
health ser vices, but it also widened commercial opportunities. The disease
model borrowed from a growing psychiatric lexicon, but its reception relied on
nonmedical factors, including perceptions of the family, political commit-
ments to state-funded health care systems, and ideals of masculinity. The LSD
treatments, with their blend of medical, psychological, and philosophical influ-
ences, emerged as a viable new way of combating the medical and moral prob-
lems of alcoholism.
Hoffer and Osmond initially tested LSD in relation to alcoholism with the
underlying belief that it would chemically alter the patient’s metabolic makeup
and cure a neurological process that, they believed, caused alcohol addiction.
This approach stemmed from their central hypothesis that major psychiatric
illnesses, and perhaps alcoholism too, had biochemical roots. They quickly dis-
covered that the perceptual disturbances produced by LSD intoxication seemed
to offer therapeutic benefits. Alcoholic patients, originally participating as vol-
unteer subjects, seemed to gain inner strength from the LSD reaction. Their
responses were highly individualistic, making the results difficult to quantify,
but a significant number of these alcoholic patients responded to the LSD expe-
rience by terminating their drinking. The results mystified investigators, and
when the Saskatchewan psychiatrists published their initial findings, many of
their colleagues simply did not believe them. The chemical experience itself
became the focal point of the therapy, which provoked counterclaims that a reli-
ance on individualized experiences did not meet the professional standards of
research; namely, results could not be replicated in controlled trials.
Nonetheless, the biochemical disease model offered an initial interpretation
of alcoholism that built upon contemporary medical discourse. In par ticular, it
complemented findings from the research group at Yale University. In the wake
of the pioneering work by E. M. Jellinek, the LSD studies of the 1950s at first
appeared in the medical literature as further evidence that alcoholism was in-
deed a disease, in this case one with biochemical mechanisms. This theory ap-
pealed to medical researchers as well as policy makers with an interest in
combating the moral arguments surrounding alcohol abuse. If alcoholism
Highs and Lows 55
existed as a medical problem it also meant that medical professionals could

draw distinctions between acceptable and unacceptable drinking.
Beginning in 1953, part of Hoffer and Osmond’s LSD experimentation
worked toward advancing a biochemical disease definition of alcoholism that
relied on a mixture of medical and sociopsychological factors. Their proposal
for a corresponding cure involved one megadose of LSD or mescaline. Results
of early drug trials with alcoholics deviated from the original premise that the
hallucinogenic drugs simply produced a model psychosis. Although alcoholic
subjects offered descriptions that often matched those given by normals, the
alcoholics frequently fixated upon a corresponding change in attitude that ac-
companied the LSD experience.4
Initial experiments demonstrated the drug’s regular capacity to bring indi-
viduals to a new state of awareness; alcoholic patients claimed that the psyche-
delic therapy influenced the way they felt and thought about drinking. One
former patient recalled the experience nearly forty years later as a life- changing
event. He stopped drinking after his LSD treatment in Saskatchewan. He re-
membered the treatment forty years later: “I had a very definite spiritual experi-
ence. It is with me to this day and has changed my attitude to a number of
things and I think that . . . well I’m still changing, I’m not done yet. But it put
me in a different time and space. . . . It changed . . . well it changed my sense of
the world and my place in it.”5 As Hoffer and Osmond discovered in their inves-
tigation of the LSD-generated model psychosis, the drug had the capacity to
significantly alter people’s perceptions of themselves. While the responses to
the drug continued to imply that a biochemical reaction remained responsible
for the consequent changes in an individual’s behavior, the described experi-
ences of personal insight and reflection often defied scientific explanation.
In any case, alcoholic patients responded extraordinarily well to the LSD treat-
ments, convincing Osmond and Hoffer that the psychedelic experience itself
conveyed potential therapeutic benefits.
Hoffer and Osmond’s endorsement of a single-session subjective therapeutic
experience, however, went against contemporary psychopharmacological trends.
The LSD experience was difficult to control and outcomes seemed uncertain,
which made several of their colleagues hesitant to support this therapy. The
treatment, nonetheless, appealed to members of Alcoholics Anonymous and
some government agencies in Saskatchewan.6 At the heart of the therapy lay a
desire to produce an experience that deeply affected the research subjects, to the
extent that they reformed their behavior. This practice not only presupposed a
medical model of alcoholism as a disease but also aimed at restoring self- control
to the patient. Drugs alone constituted an insufficient therapeutic modality;

instead, according to Hoffer and Osmond, treatment also needed to reestablish
personal control. Because LSD acted upon the individual both chemically and
psychologically, they reasoned that psychedelic therapy represented a superior
treatment option.
The treatment did not simply involve replacing alcohol with LSD, but instead
relied on a single albeit megadose of LSD in a clinical environment. Patients
underwent an intense LSD reaction, followed by a period of self-reflection that
often resulted in attitudinal changes. Proponents of this approach believed that
this therapeutic regimen incorporated the importance of reflecting upon the
individual’s reasons for drinking rather than simply focusing on curbing drink-
ing altogether. The psychologist Duncan Blewett contended that LSD offered a
superior form of therapy because it “aid[ed] man in seeing himself, his values
and his behaviour in [a] new perspective; in freeing himself from disadvanta-
geous patterns of thought and action.” The reflective aspect of the therapy ad-
dressed the frequent complaint from patients that they drank to overcome a
feeling that their lives were out of control. Blewett added that with psychedelic
therapy “not only can creative and executive capacities (such as conceptual abil-
ity, self actualisation, decision making under stress, self confidence) be height-
ened, but mental powers akin to intuitive thinking and imagination can be
developed.” The period of self-reflection involved in psychedelic treatment en-
couraged patients to contemplate the relationship between self- control and
drinking. In contrast with prevailing trends in psychopharmacological treat-
ments that relied on long-term chemical consumption, the LSD therapies in-
volved short, intense treatment sessions. Other methods frequently shifted
dependence, whether to a chemical or a psychotherapeutic relationship, and did
little to assist the patient in resurrecting self- control.7
Their devotion to a one-session treatment stemmed from a complicated set
of ideas regarding the changing role of medical authority. Although Hoffer and
Osmond appeared less concerned about how this played out with patients, they
expressed concerns about the growing power of pharmaceutical companies and
the corresponding decline of professional authority among psychiatrists. They
supported retaining medical authority in clinical research and treatment that
could not be subverted by commercial interests. Subscribing to psychopharma-
cological treatments created by for-profit pharmaceutical companies, they
feared, wrested authority away from psychiatrists and promoted the corporate
interests of drug companies instead of patient welfare. This attitude was also
reflected in their hesitancy to support the growing practice of large-scale con-
Highs and Lows 57
trolled drug trials. Hoffer and Osmond affirmed that the maintenance, and
indeed growth, of medical authority over decisions concerning drug research in
the postwar period was particularly important when confronted with the grow-
ing power of corporate interests over medical decision-making.
Osmond reasoned that, given the growing social acceptance of drinking in
North America, it should not be difficult to convince laypeople that problem
drinking existed as a disease. He felt that failed prohibition efforts in previous
decades proved that a majority of people valued responsible drinking in North
American culture. Many people, historically and cross- culturally, had demon-
strated the capacity to enjoy alcohol consumption and incorporate it into respon-
sible social interactions; thus, excessive drinking conceivably demonstrated a
lack of control on the part of the individual. 8
Clinicians then faced the challenge of defining the disease in the wake of
declining temperance movements that made them sensitive to some of the so-
cial attitudes toward problem drinking. Unfortunately, Osmond contended,
medical researchers had been preoccupied with gathering evidence proving
that social factors influenced the development of excessive drinking behavior.
Important indicators of disease probability included variables such as class,
gender, race, and ethnicity, but he maintained that this emphasis on sociode-
mographic factors presented misleading and even worthless information. For
example, the observation that Irish men statistically drink more than Jewish
men offered no prescriptive solution to the problem of alcoholism. He sug-
gested that “the forcible conversion of Irishmen to Judaism would not com-
mend itself much to either of those ancient and resilient people. . . . It appears
that we can do little or nothing with this bit of information.” Instead of concen-
trating on examining the social characteristics of problem drinkers from an
external vantage point, Osmond recommended employing tactics similar to
studying mental illness by exploring the “drinking society” as perceived by the
alcoholic.9
Across North America, Osmond estimated that approximately 100 million
people belonged to the drinking society, of which roughly 5 percent were alco-
holics. He suggested that this social group existed across linguistic, gender,
class, race, and age categories and acquired their own social customs and rituals
that centered around drinking. The people who became alcoholic were, perhaps
ironically, leaders or heroes within the drinking society. For example, Osmond
said, “an alcoholic-to-be is liable to be admired early in his career; indeed he
may even be envied by members of the drinking society, his attainments may
well receive approbation and he will be invested with status and prestige. At this
time his activities are not considered rash or imprudent—quite the reverse. His
drinking companions may well feel a little wistful that they do not have a head
like his and that their legs are not hollow. It is unlikely that anyone rewarded in
this manner by his peers will stop to ponder the possible long term conse-
quences of what may seem to be a wonderful gift.” According to Osmond, the
escalation of acceptable drinking into excessive (problem) drinking took place
within a sociocultural context specific to the drinking society where virtues did
not include restraint. Rather, alcohol consumption and machismo existed as
mutually reinforcing factors, and excessive drinking earned the individual sta-
tus. Jake Calder, director of Saskatchewan’s Bureau on Alcoholism, elaborated
on this sentiment by suggesting that intoxication had par ticular rewards for
young adult males because “it is considered to be a sign of masculinity and
adulthood, even though it is disapproved [of ] by many other elements of soci-
ety.” Similarly, Seldon Bacon at Yale University recognized that the American
frontier society valued an image of masculinity that, among other criteria, regu-
larly included drinking. While the sober observer may have concluded that the
leaders of the drinking society exhibited a lack of control or weakness, the con-
ventions of the drinking culture implied the reverse: he who held his liquor
demonstrated control, authority, and even leadership.10
By envisioning a medical approach that adopted an empathetic perspective
and an appreciation of the rituals of the drinking society, Osmond recommended
a treatment aimed at breaking the cycle of alcoholism by using mechanisms
found within the drinking society itself. He felt that medical attitudes toward
problem drinking needed to offer meaningful definitions and solutions. The
extension of medical authority into this area served no par ticular purpose if it
did not present an alternative to conventional attitudes. Therefore, he employed
the same logic that he used for redressing the medicalization of mental illness;
he relied on self-experimentation with LSD in an effort to generate medical au-
thority that derived out of an empathetic understanding of the alcoholic.
Alcoholism Trials
According to Hoffer, the idea of relating the LSD experience to alcoholism
occurred to him and Osmond one evening while they were in Ottawa in the fall
of 1953. The two had arrived in the nation’s capital upon invitation from the
Department of National Health and Welfare but had difficulty sleeping in the
hotel the night before the meeting. As a result, they decided to forgo rest and
Highs and Lows 59
instead discussed the contemporary challenges facing psychiatrists. Sometime

around 4:00 a.m. they struck upon the observation that LSD experiences were
also remarkably similar to descriptions of delirium tremens by alcoholic pa-
tients. Hoffer recalled that the idea “seemed so bizarre that we laughed uproari-
ously. But when our laughter subsided, the question seemed less comical and
we formed our hypothesis . . . : would a controlled LSD-produced delirium help
alcoholics stay sober?” The contemporary medical literature suggested that ap-
proximately 10 percent of delirium tremens had fatal consequences for patients,
but that it also marked a critical turning point in the course of the disease. If an
LSD reaction could simulate the delirium tremens, might it help patients over-
come their desire to drink excessively? Upon returning to Saskatchewan, Hoffer
and Osmond endeavored to test their assumption.11
Once back on the prairies, they wasted no time preparing the study. At Wey-
burn, Osmond treated one male and one female patient, each with a single dose
of 200 micrograms of LSD. Although they had already determined that small
amounts of the drug produced profound results, in an attempt to re- create an
experience as intense as delirium tremens, Osmond reasoned that subjects
would require a larger dose.12 The subjects of the initial study were patients ad-
mitted for chronic alcoholism to the Saskatchewan Mental Hospital in Wey-
burn. The male patient stopped drinking and remained sober for at least six
months, at which point the follow-up study ended. The female patient contin-
ued drinking in the days immediately after the experiment but stopped during
the follow-up period. The results were puzzling, and they concluded that based
on this miniature experiment, LSD might simply have a 50 percent chance of
helping alcoholics. For the next decade, they tested this hypothesis on more
than seven hundred cases; they claimed that the results remained astonishingly
consistent with those generated in the first experiment.13
Their original contention had been that LSD produced a model psychosis.
The results of the LSD trials on alcoholics demonstrated that the psychedelic
experience itself offered real therapeutic benefits. Hoffer maintained that “from
the first we considered not the chemical, but the experience as a key factor in
therapy—in fact, we used a sort of psychotherapy made possible by the nature
of the experience.”14 This assertion set LSD treatments apart from other psy-
chopharmacological therapies by enlarging the treatment modality to include
the more subjective area of experience.15 Their devotion to examining the highly
subjective reactions also distinguished their approach from contemporary atti-
tudes toward the constitution of alcoholism as a disease.
Hoffer and Osmond believed that the newfound capacity to produce a model
psychosis allowed psychiatrists an opportunity to investigate inner experiences
with “rigorous scientific scrutiny.” Osmond believed that by drawing exten-
sively on theories developed by Carl Jung concerning the relationship between
inner experiences and corresponding human behavior, the same kind of psy-
chological theorizing might apply to considerations of disordered behavior.
Guided by Jung’s psychological theories that helped explain areas of intuition,
feeling, and thinking, Osmond recommended further empirical testing. Clas-
sifying psychotic experiences would make it “possible to explore phenomeno-
logical worlds; the way individuals [with psychotic symptoms] perceive events
need no longer be seen as ‘mysterious’, but can be computed explicitly.”16
Unlike Jung, who developed psychological categories for nonpsychotic peo-
ple, Osmond believed that a similar classification system could be developed to
clarify psychotic experiences. He felt that psychiatrists had too often avoided
this kind of investigation because the vast uncertainties and inconsistencies
across experiences “frightened modern investigators away. We [psychiatrists]
like our psychology to be safe and under control, and admission of our huge ig-
norance hurts us.”17 Recent advances in psychedelic psychiatry, however, pro-
duced the theoretical frameworks and practical tools necessary for investigating
the “experiential world of the schizophrenic” and thereby “removing some of
the [clinical] ignorance in this area.” Applying psychological categories to psy-
chotic behaviors prompted Osmond to consider the same for alcoholic patients.
Instead of measur ing intuition, behavior, and feeling against normal percep-
tions, psychiatrists should develop a separate category of psychological catego-
ries based on alcoholic perceptions. This approach, Osmond believed, would
give psychiatrists a clearer understanding of the pathology of the disease.18
Although LSD produced highly individualized reactions that made a classifi-
cation of experiences problematic, Hoffer and Osmond recognized the need to
identify common trends in order to promote their therapy within the ascendant
framework of mainstream psychiatry. Their biochemical research on schizo-
phrenia supplied some of the theoretical background for explaining the results
of their trials with alcoholics. Accordingly, they elaborated a biochemical expla-
nation based on their earlier studies that demonstrated an increased rate of
adrenaline production in patients with schizophrenia. Related research on
chronic alcoholics indicated comparable levels of adrenaline production, partic-
ularly during delirium tremens. Hoffer and Osmond thus pronounced a bio-
chemical link between mental illness and addiction that placed both diseases
under the authority of psychiatrists, safely within the medical arena.19
Highs and Lows 61
In 1955, the psychiatrist Colin Smith conducted another LSD and alcoholism
study in Saskatchewan involving twenty-four patients from the University Hos-
pital in Saskatoon. After a three-year follow-up he published the results. Funded
by a National Health Grant, the Rockefeller Foundation, and the Saskatchewan
Committee on Schizophrenia Research, Smith recruited local patient volun-
teers and coordinated follow-ups within the community. Patients who volun-
teered for this treatment had already been diagnosed with chronic alcoholism
and agreed to a two- to four-week stay at the hospital in Saskatoon.20
During the first part of their stay, Smith encouraged the patients to talk
about their drinking and he explained the objectives of the trial. Although pre-
vious research indicated that LSD experiences varied widely from one individ-
ual to the other, he nonetheless made an effort to prepare subjects for the kinds
of responses they might expect from the drug. For example, already their re-
search inventory of experiences demonstrated the strong likelihood that sub-
jects encountered some changes in sensory observation including distortions in
depth perception, disorientation, and sensory overload. Additionally, Smith and
others knew that patients often felt that LSD affected their perception of time.
From the length of time consumed by the experiment, to a sense of engage-
ment in a par ticular time period, to an inability to relate to others’ recollections
of the same time, LSD frequently tampered with the subjects’ sense of time.
These and other observations of perceptual distortions supplied patients with a
general idea about how the drug might affect them during the experiment.21
In the final days of their stay, patients received a single dose of LSD ranging
from 200 to 400 micrograms or half a gram of mescaline. The experiment took
place in the hospital, but most often the patient spent the day in a private room
or a doctor’s office, accompanied by a nurse, a psychiatrist, or both. In the early
trials no concerted efforts were made to create a more stimulating environ-
ment, but as the trials progressed, stimuli such as music, fresh- cut flowers,
paintings, and other visual aids were added to intentionally create a comforta-
ble, nonthreatening environment. Attending staff encouraged patients to enjoy
the experience and speak freely or to comfortably withdraw from the others in
the room. Approximately eight hours after consuming LSD, the patients re-
turned to the ward where they often ingested a second drug to help them sleep.
The following day, they were expected to compose a written description of their
experience, without interference from hospital staff.22 In Smith’s trial, patients
remained in the hospital for a few days following the treatment and he strongly
encouraged patients to take up or renew their membership in AA following
their discharge.23
Follow-ups for Smith’s trial ranged from three months to three years and re-
lied on the cooperation of family, friends, community organizations, employers,
and Alcoholics Anonymous. Interviews with the patients’ contacts in the com-
munity, as well as with their family members, allowed researchers to conduct
follow-up assessments that went beyond clinical contact. The final report from
Smith’s twenty-four patient study stated that none of the patients were worse.
Twelve patients remained “unchanged”; six entered the “improved” category;
and six were described as “much improved.” To qualify for the “much improved”
category, the patient needed to exhibit complete abstinence from alcohol for the
duration of the follow-up period. “Improved” status applied to patients demon-
strating a significant reduction in alcohol intake in combination with lifestyle
changes (including improvements in relationships and regular employment).
“Unchanged” classification applied to people showing little to no change.24
The trial involved the local community on two fundamental levels. Local
participation was necessary for coordinating follow-up reports on the drinking
habits of patients, which made community members vital contributors to the
study. Conversely, community involvement generated support for the medical
research and helped reduce political opposition to treating alcoholism in pub-
licly funded treatment centers. Actively involving nonalcoholic members of the
community in the treatment program expanded the medicalization of alcohol-
ism into the public discourse on problem drinking. The medicolegal discourse
on alcoholism as a (masculine) disease changed local popular perceptions about
whether alcoholics deserved medical treatment or legal sanctions.
The medical-popular alliance also supported nonmedical organizations,
such as AA, in their attempts to help alcoholics. Founded in 1935, by 1941 AA
boasted over eight thousand members in chapters across North America and it
quickly surpassed medical interventions in reports of helping alcoholics over-
come alcohol consumption. The principles of AA were not grounded in medical
expertise but instead relied on fraternal support from members who shared ex-
periences with alcoholism. The organization created a nondrinking society that
tailored its own rules and customs to the needs of problem drinkers. The colle-
gial function of the organization provided individuals with a social outlet, which
several members suggested was one of the original impetuses to engage in ac-
tivities where drinking was a focal point. By providing a peer- evaluated and
empathetic therapy, AA became the most effective form of treatment by the late
1940s and promised a 50 to 60 percent chance of recovery for its members.
This rate exceeded medical methods, such as aversion therapy (or the use of
Highs and Lows 63
chemical substances to suppress the desire to drink), by between 10 and 30

percent.25
In addition to providing social space and peer support for people struggling to
overcome their obsession with drinking, AA adopted a twelve-step tradition or
program for combating alcoholism. Part of the twelve-step process involved an
early recognition of the ultimate authority of God. Cofounder Bill W. explained
the necessity of this stage for beginning the recovery process. He insisted that
this phase involved something spiritual or religious and it reminded the indi-
vidual that he or she was not alone, nor invincible. Instilling these values became
an integral part of breaking the patterns and conventions of membership in the
drinking society. Bill W. recalled his realization that “it was only a matter of be-
ing willing to believe in a power greater than myself. Nothing more was required
of me to make my beginning.”26 Arriving at this perspective was often the most
difficult obstacle for people trying to overcome the desire to drink, though sev-
eral individuals achieved this spiritual epiphany after experiencing delirium
tremens. But for many alcoholics delirium tremens was fatal. AA hoped to con-
vince members of the significance of spirituality without delirium tremens.
LSD offered a chemically induced experience that often generated a sense of
spirituality. LSD subjects frequently described their reactions in spiritual terms
and claimed that the experience had an overpowering effect on their
self-perceptions. The frequency of these kinds of responses led some research-
ers to believe that LSD was the psychoactive substance capable of creating this
necessary set of reactions. In the late 1950s, Bill W. himself experimented with
LSD. Although he was reluctant to support the use of any drugs that might com-
promise his sobriety, the promise of a spiritual experience intrigued him. After
a few sessions, Bill W. ultimately discontinued his experimentation out of con-
cern for his role as the only surviving cofounder of an organization devoted to
sobriety. Nonetheless, he corresponded with Hoffer and Osmond in Saskatch-
ewan and continued to quietly support their research and their efforts to intro-
duce spirituality into the medical discourse on alcoholism.27
Saskatchewan’s director for the Bureau on Alcoholism, Jake Calder, sur-
mised that the reason why LSD offered an effective form of medical treatment,
was because it addressed the spiritual needs of the alcoholic, which were absent
from other medical models. He commented, “religion’s part in therapy has not
always been a completely respectable subject for discussion in professional and
scientific circles.” Calder explained that on one hand AA benefited tremen-
dously from medical research that provided scientific evidence undermining
moral arguments about the inherent weaknesses of alcoholics. On the other

hand, however, most medical theories betrayed the experience of alcoholism by
ignoring its spiritual and social aspects. Because the research program in Sas-
katchewan worked closely with AA and developed a clinical approach that ap-
preciated the experience of the disease from the perspective of alcoholics, Calder
endorsed the program as the best available medical treatment for alcoholism.28
Psychedelic Treatments
When Osmond formally introduced the term “psychedelic” in 1957, it readily
applied to the alcohol studies as well as to their research on schizophrenia. Os-
mond had carefully chosen the word, in part, to avoid overt clinical connotations
that might have stifled a sense of personal ownership in the treatment process,
which he saw as necessary for imbuing hope and self-reflection among subscrib-
ers to the psychedelic therapy. But with regard to alcoholism, the term psyche-
delic also implied something spiritual or religious. In fact, in order for a reaction
to fit into the psychedelic category, the subject or patient had to describe, in his or
her own words, an experience that included spiritual or religious characteristics.
One patient’s report of his reaction to the drug that met these criteria articulated
“a very vivid experience with auditory and visual hallucinations, distortions of
spatial perceptions, paranoid ideas, emotional outbursts etc. During the first
hour there were marked feelings of panic. The patient talked about experiencing
‘the glory of God’ and ‘the magnitude of the universe.’ ” This experience, al-
though punctuated by moments of fear and paranoia, culminated in a spiritual
vision that made a lasting impression on the patient.29
Following the completion of Smith’s trial in 1958, he composed a scientific
explanation that involved examining the responses accumulated during the
clinical trials and the lay perspectives collected throughout the follow-up pe-
riod. A common example of an alcoholic patient’s reaction came from a psychia-
trist’s report: “He [the patient] had a momentary oneness with God. Had a
vision while lying [down] with eyes closed of a spiral staircase with himself talk-
ing to another person. This appeared to have great meaning to him. . . . He
seems to have gained some insight and understanding of himself.”30 This reac-
tion matched the ideals of AA by stimulating an overtly spiritual experience,
and it persuaded the Saskatchewan group to continue conducting LSD trials
with alcoholics who expressed a desire to stop drinking. Linking the psychedelic
therapy with AA principles also helped soften the psychoanalytical overtones by
couching the explanation in overtly spiritual terms.
Highs and Lows 65
Because of the intensely personal and subjective nature of experiences gen-

erated by the LSD treatment, classifying and evaluating their significance be-
came a tremendous challenge. Osmond and others employed the same methods
in the trials with alcoholics as they used with normal subjects; people under-
went the trial in the presence of a doctor or nurse who made observations
throughout the experiment. These observers subsequently encouraged subjects
to submit their own report on the experience within a few days. While the wit-
nesses to the experiments commented on physical and empirically observable
behavior and statements, subjects regularly complained about having difficul-
ties describing their experiences. The distortion of sensory perceptions and the
overwhelming, often racing, flow of feelings and ideas frequently left subjects
struggling to find the appropriate language to describe their encounter with
LSD. Nonetheless, this combination of perspectives assisted researchers in lay-
ing the groundwork for assessing the therapeutic experience.
Despite the challenge of conveying their experiences, patients offered per-
sonal statements that contributed an invaluable perspective on the research
program. One set of transcripts and patients’ reports from the University Hos-
pital in Saskatoon contained several examples of patients’ descriptions. This
par ticular set of records cataloged experiments from 1958 to 1966 involving 58
women and 158 men, for a total of 216 patients who volunteered for LSD or mes-
caline therapy in this drug trial. In each of these cases, patients completed a
consent form; a nurse attendant attached a transcript of the trial that recorded
the chronology of events and the times at which empirically observable reac-
tions took place. In the majority of cases, a doctor’s report also accompanied the
trial docket; most often the patient submitted a description in his or her own
writing.31 Excerpts from the patients’ reports expressed the profundity of their
responses to the drug. The following quote in the patient’s own words describes
his spiritual reaction to the drug:
How can I explain the face, vile, repulsive and scaly, that I took by the hand into the
depth of hell from whence it came and then gently removed that scaly thing from
the face and took it by the hand up up into the light and saw the face in all its God
given beauty, so much beauty that the pot could not hold it, but it could not spill
over. It seemed that my head and shoulders and hips down [there] were separated
and my stomach was the battleground between good and evil. . . . I finally talked to
[the doctor] who seemed to have no trouble understanding the things I was de-
scribing to him and yet can not put on paper. It is a living thing I feel and I wish I
were an artist and could paint it or put it to music or verse for the world to share. It
seems to be a feeling that only someone that has seen the scale of all emotions,
through LSD or alcohol can even come close to knowing or believing even in the
most fantastic things you try to convey to them. It is a wonderful feeling of the
choice to go up or down. I chose to go up and feel clean fresh and good.32
Smith categorized this par ticular LSD experience as a psychedelic reaction.

The patient had a spiritual experience that forced him to contend with forces of
“good” and “evil,” and he emerged from the episode feeling confident and re-
formed. Although Smith required further information from follow-up studies
before ascertaining whether the treatment was successful or not, he expected
this patient to show promise on account of his spiritual reaction. Although he
considered the psychedelic reaction the most useful for attaining sobriety,
Smith found that most patients, even those who did not have an overtly spiritual
experience, reached new levels of self-awareness; for some he could detect this
only after consulting with the patient or interpreting a patient’s report.
Patients’ own descriptions of their LSD experiences often revealed insights
that were difficult for observers to appreciate. Nurses’ reports portrayed the
challenge of recording a highly subjective experience where the observer’s as-
sessment did not necessarily match the patient’s experience. But attending
nurses were instructed to compose a report based on observable or objective
changes in the subject. The nurses’ reports often conflicted with the reflections
submitted by patients. For example, nurses sometimes documented a patient’s
withdrawal from a conversation or marked desire to lie still and disengage from
the experimental setting. At such times, the observers’ reports questioned
whether the drug had taken effect.
Patients’ reports provided a vital perspective on the effects of the drug. For
example, a patient who was described by the attendant as being disengaged
said the period of withdrawal was in fact a moment of intense personal revela-
tion. Another patient, prompted by the attending nurse to discuss his reasons
for seeking therapy, responded: “I cannot look into the past. Disgusted with
myself. I am always scared of something. I want to be something.” The next
day the same patient reported in his own words: “In answer to why I fear peo-
ple, I found that I fear myself and my ability to do things right. In order to
overcome this fear I found I had to look inward to myself to conquer, instead of
outside myself.” He claimed that his arrival at this conclusion occurred during
the LSD trial but he was unable to express himself until the following day.
These kinds of reflections underscored the importance of encouraging patients
to provide their own depictions of the trial in order for psychiatrists to ade-
Highs and Lows 67
quately assess the value of the experience. It also suggested the pressing need
for follow-up consultations beyond the termination of the clinical part of the
experiment.33
A minority of cases in this trial at the University Hospital in Saskatoon re-
vealed evidence of an experience that psychiatrists categorized as negative. Hof-
fer and others reasoned that the low rate of negative reactions was, in large
measure, due to the previous psychedelic research, which convinced them that
the LSD reaction bore some relationship with adrenaline production. By em-
ploying aggressive screening techniques that utilized the results of biochemical
studies, they reduced the number of subjects who exhibited high levels of
adrenaline, thus reducing the risk of bad reactions. Despite these precautions,
negative responses to the drug occurred. One patient described his experience
and alleged “there are some worms. They’re nodding at me. Am I dying? I must
be dying because they’re eating my flesh. They’re gone now. I can’t move. Am I
dead?” The observer documented these expressions during the trial, and owing
to the terrifying nature of these hallucinations, the doctor terminated the reac-
tion by giving this patient a dose of niacin.34 Interestingly, this patient later
contended that despite these outbursts he had felt reassured about his safety by
the presence of empathetic staff. He remained confident that the drug produced
his hallucinations and that the worms and associated feelings existed outside
reality.35
The patients’ reports made a valuable contribution to the assessment of the
therapeutic value of LSD and they also pointed out for researchers aspects of
the experimental design that required improvement. Self- experimentation
with the drug indicated its capacity to alter perception, but patients’ reports
reminded researchers that the environment in which the trial took place also
affected the type of reaction. For example, two primary elements of Smith’s
original twenty-four-patient trial were the result of patients’ observations about
the research environment: the presence of an empathetic doctor and the use of
a stimulating setting. Several researchers concluded from these trials that “un-
sympathetic, hostile and unfeeling personnel bring about fear and hostility
with a marked increase in the psychotic aspect of the experience. Allowing
staff members an LSD experience automatically changed attitudes by greatly
increasing empathy with the person undergoing the experience.”36 This find-
ing echoed Osmond’s suggestion that in order to produce effective treatment
modalities clinicians needed to incorporate an empathetic appreciation of the
patients’ perceptions in order to adequately convey a sense of trust in the doc-
tor’s authority and the prescribed treatment.
The trials also indicated that the research environment affected the experi-
mental experience in significant ways. Experiments that took place in a stark
clinical setting produced different reactions from those that occurred in a
room with visual and audio stimuli, including such simple items as windows
and a record player. A report from Blewett, Chwelos, Hoffer, and Smith con-
tended that “the environment surrounding the patient taking LSD was changed
by the addition of auditory stimuli, visual stimuli, emotional stimuli and a
change in the attitude of the people in contact with the patient.” They tested
different kinds of spaces, employing the general principle that subjects re-
sponded best when placed in comfortable surroundings where distracting ob-
jects were present. Stimuli frequently consisted of music (usually classical) on
a record player, fresh- cut flowers, and photographs of familiar people or repro-
ductions of famous artwork. These materials seemed to help subjects concen-
trate on something other than the fact that they were anticipating a physiological
reaction. Concentrating on the rich colors of a flower, the layers of chords in
Beethoven’s music, or the detailed brushstrokes of a van Gogh painting trans-
fixed subjects as they eased into the experience and marveled at the fascinating
distortion of perception.37
One of Hoffer and Osmond’s colleagues in British Columbia conducted a
more thorough investigation of the set and setting with respect to the LSD ex-
periment in the late 1950s. Al Hubbard was also known as “Captain Trips.” He
purportedly acquired this title for the many airplane flights he made along the
North American West Coast to collect wealthy alcoholic film stars and deposit
them at Hollywood Hospital for discrete LSD treatments. (His participation in
the trials is discussed in greater detail in chapter 4.) Although Hubbard left few
records of his work, several of the Saskatchewan researchers credited him with
making novel additions to the research setting; his ideas were based on his own
self- experimentation with LSD and his observations of the experimental envi-
ronment. Hubbard suggested that the environment might be as important to
the therapeutic experience as the drug itself. Hollywood Hospital in New West-
minster, where Hubbard was based, dealt predominantly with alcoholics for
whom doctors most desired the induction of a spiritual reaction, in accordance
with principles from AA. Hubbard recommended adding to the setting reli-
gious pictures, icons, and music. Subsequently, he claimed an increase in the
spiritual reactions and recovery rates of participants. The Saskatchewan group
maintained close contact with Hubbard and gradually incorporated some of his
techniques into their own experiments.38
Highs and Lows 69
The variety of LSD reactions observed in hundreds of trials contributed

to the growing inventory of data on the LSD experience. The Saskatchewan
psychiatric research program prepared some conclusions on the heretofore-
experimental observations, including results of self- experimentation. One of
the important observations about psychedelic drugs such as LSD and mesca-
line was that these substances allowed some people to experience a “transcen-
dental feeling of being united with the world.” The trials highlighted the
importance of using LSD to cultivate a mind-manifesting experience that led
to personal insight, transcendence, or spiritual enlightenment. Furthermore,
while LSD triggered the reaction, the experience itself wielded the therapeutic
benefits.39
In 1959, after taking stock of the inventory of experiences collected in Sas-
katchewan, psychologist Duncan Blewett and physician Nick Chwelos pub-
lished a comprehensive manual on the use of LSD in therapy. While the
manual pertained to LSD experiences in general, it was particularly useful
for investigators interested in initiating trials with alcoholics. Regina-based
experiments conducted by Blewett and Chwelos combined the results of
self- experimentation with outcomes from the trials conducted throughout the
province. They worked closely with Osmond, Hoffer, Smith, and a number of
other experimenters in Saskatchewan and abroad, and by cata loging the range
of experiences, doses, and settings, their analysis served as a guidebook for
LSD experimentation. 40 The handbook offered a list of the most common
responses:
1. A feeling of being at one with the Universe.

2. Experience of being able to see oneself objectively or a feeling that one has
two identities.
3. Change in usual concept of self with concomitant change in perceived
body.
4. Changes in perception of space and time.
5. Enhancement in the sensory fields.
6. Changes in thinking and understanding so the subject feels he develops
a profound understanding in the field of philosophy or religion.
7. A wider range of emotions with rapid fluctuation.
8. Increased sensitivity to the feelings of others.
9. Psychotic changes—these include illusions, hallucinations, paranoid
delusions of reference, influence, persecution and grandeur, thought
disorder, perceptual distortion, severe anxiety and others which have

been described in many reports. 41
Based on this analysis of the LSD trials, the researchers concluded that the
drug held tremendous therapeutic potential and, moreover, demonstrated the
importance of incorporating empathy, spirituality, and patients’ perspectives
into medical discourse. By the end of the 1950s, buoyed by the success of the
LSD trials, Hoffer and Osmond recommended that psychedelic treatments be-
come part of regular therapy options for alcoholic patients.42
In 1962, psychiatrist Sven Jensen, working in Weyburn, Saskatchewan, pub-
lished the first purported controlled trial on LSD treatment for alcoholism.
Jensen relied on three pools of subjects for treatment: one group of alcoholics
took LSD at the end of a hospital stay (the stay usually lasted a few weeks); the
second group received group therapy; and the third group was treated by Jensen’s
colleagues at Weyburn with their own standard approaches (excluding psyche-
delic therapy). In his two-year study, involving follow-up periods of six to eigh-
teen months, Jensen evaluated patients treated for chronic alcoholism according
to these three different methods. The results of the study reported that thirty-
eight of the fifty-eight patients treated with LSD remained abstinent throughout
the follow-up period. These numbers conveyed greater significance when com-
pared with the outcome from the second group. Among those patients who re-
ceived group therapy exclusively, only seven of the thirty-eight involved in the
trial remained abstinent. Even those figures, however, showed greater promise
than the results from the group treated by Jensen’s colleagues using other meth-
ods; in this group only four out of thirty-five patients stopped drinking.43
Jensen published his study in the Quarterly Journal for Studies on Alcohol
and defined the control mechanism based on the comparative component of
the trial. He maintained that this exercise underscored the superiority of the
LSD treatment over the other two methods. Moreover, this kind of controlled
trial did not endanger patients by attempting to isolate the reaction of the
drug, a situation that empathetic researchers recognized increased feelings of
fear and paranoia while decreasing the probability of a psychedelic reaction.
Jensen’s comparative study allowed observers to maintain the emphasis on
monitoring complex subjective experiences rather than relatively more simple
empirically observable reactions. The publication of the results of a controlled
trial based on the LSD treatments also added scientific credibility to the treat-
ment, particularly when other drug treatments underwent scrutiny in con-
trolled trials.
Highs and Lows 71
Publicizing the Results

In Saskatchewan, support for LSD treatments coalesced behind Osmond’s
psychedelic approach as a progressive therapy option. Local chapters of Alcohol-
ics Anonymous worked closely with the LSD researchers to improve recruit-
ment and follow-up methods and began spreading the message about the LSD
treatments among its members.44 The Saskatchewan Bureau on Alcoholism
wholeheartedly embraced the homegrown approach as the best method for ap-
pealing to both the alcoholic community and the morally conscious constitu-
ency by presenting a medical model that appealed to objectives of both groups.
Saskatchewan premier Tommy Douglas applauded the pioneering innovation at
the Psychiatric Ser vices Branch and assisted in developing policy that made
LSD therapies part of the regular treatment options in the region.45 The local
reception of the psychedelic treatments was not altogether surprising; these or-
ganizations felt vested in the experimentation process, having played formative
roles during the early phases of the trials. The emerging network of organiza-
tions committed to the treatment helped further bolster local support.
Publications from Saskatchewan’s Bureau on Alcoholism contained hard-
hitting reports about the dangers of moralistic arguments that restricted alco-
holics from seeking the medical attention they needed. In one of their
newsletters Duncan Blewett wrote: “What motive could make you personally
face strong public rejection and condemnation; extreme self reproach and guilt;
marital discord—often divorce and financial disaster? . . . They [alcoholics] are
unwilling victims caught in the grip of a disease which affects thousands of
people in our community.” Blewett continued by explaining how the disease af-
fected the individual physically, psychologically, and spiritually. He concluded
with a recommendation for LSD therapy.46
The bureau’s bulletins were peppered with information about the ongoing
research and LSD treatments. The reports, usually coming directly from psychi-
atric research branches, universally condemned the interpretation of alcoholism
as a moral weakness. Pamphlets regularly included a personal story of recovery
along with a variety of ways to secure assistance for family members or individu-
als suffering from alcoholism.47 In addition, the bulletins described the scien-
tific research conducted at each of the treatment centers in the province as well
as the international recognition Saskatchewan had allegedly gained from its new
and innovative approach to treatment. The bureau enthusiastically supported the
new alcoholism treatment as a matter of local pride and personal triumph.48
The bureau’s campaign on alcoholism uncritically promoted the LSD pro-

gram to Saskatchewan residents; selling the notion to temperance and religious
organizations, however, involved different challenges. In these circumstances,
advocates such as Duncan Blewett appealed to religious leaders on the basis of
the mystical and spiritual experience associated with the psychedelic effects.
Osmond, Hoffer, and Blewett attended meetings held by temperance organiza-
tions and explained the psychiatric research program and its significance to the
religious community. They appealed to religious leaders with the well-supported
notion from Alcoholics Anonymous that alcoholics needed a spiritual experi-
ence to overcome their problem drinking. Blewett encouraged the leaders of re-
ligious and temperance organizations to embrace the alcoholic patients’ need
for spirituality rather than condemning them for moral laxity.49
In 1961 the Canadian Temperance Foundation held its annual convention in
Regina, and LSD treatment advocates gathered at the meeting to present their
idea of treatment over temperance. The concept of the LSD treatment intrigued
several conference participants. Pastor William Potoroka from the Alcohol Edu-
cation Ser vice in Manitoba decided to see for himself how the program oper-
ated. Potoroka first visited Abram Hoffer in Saskatoon; under Hoffer’s direction
Potoroka experimented with LSD for himself. A few months later he visited the
provincial psychiatric hospital in Weyburn and observed the effect of LSD treat-
ments performed by psychiatrist Sven Jensen. His exposure to these different
trials convinced Potoroka that LSD did indeed hold powerful therapeutic bene-
fits for alcoholics.50
Upon returning to Manitoba, Potoroka explained to the Alcohol Education
Ser vice how LSD treatment worked and what it meant for the role of the clergy.
He considered that “the LSD experience is a tremendous experience in feeling,
in insight, in the re- ordering of the elements of life, and in relationships (hu-
man and divine). . . . When the alcoholic has succeeded in surrendering him-
self to the experience you sense instinctively that an illumination of the human
soul may be taking place.” Once the patient submitted to a higher power, ac-
cording to Potoroka, the understanding and support of the church must be
there to help the recovered alcoholic adjust to his new sense of self. The church,
therefore, need not eschew the encroachment of science into spirituality but
rather welcome the new chemically inspired spiritual conversions.51
Saskatchewan’s premier, who was also a Baptist minister, publicly endorsed
the psychedelic treatment as a progressive mixture of religious and political
goals. He explained the problem of alcohol consumption as one that required
collective action and sympathy. In his address to the Canadian Temperance
Highs and Lows 73
Foundation in 1961, Douglas outlined the need to “recognize that in many cases
alcoholism is not just something liable to moral strictures but that in many
cases alcoholism means that the sufferer is in need of medical and psychiatric
care. . . . I think we are losing the old attitude that those who have fallen under
alcohol are social lepers and work which is being done today by the psychiatrists
is giving us a new sense of sympathy and understanding.” Douglas encouraged
communities to accept alcoholism as a medical disease. After all, sympathy for
the diseased individual did more to help alcoholics recover than applying moral
arguments that condemned people to a lifetime of social stigma. Additionally,
he congratulated Hoffer and Osmond for their pioneering work and bold discov-
eries in the field, which reflected positively on the province. Once again, sup-
port from the premier mixed local political objectives with medical research
goals to buttress pride in the new therapeutic approach.52
While public support for the treatments continued to grow in Saskatchewan,
the medical theories underpinning psychedelic therapy came under attack from
members of the medical community unwilling to support a methodological ap-
proach that mixed medical and sociopsychological models of addiction. Support
for a disease concept of alcoholism, coupled with LSD treatments, escalated in
Saskatchewan throughout the 1950s. After the turn of the decade, however, criti-
cism from the medical community began to chip away at the pool of local sup-
port for this therapy. At the end of the 1950s the LSD treatments, in combination
with Alcoholics Anonymous, seemed to offer one of the most promising new
therapies for alcoholism. The medical literature reported an average 40 percent
recovery rate for alcoholics with other methods of drug treatment, whereas the
LSD treatments in Saskatchewan and elsewhere claimed an average 60 percent
recovery rate, with some units boasting an overwhelming success rate of 94 per-
cent recoveries, much of which owed success to improved screening measures
for potential candidates. These kinds of claims immediately provoked scepticism
from medical colleagues. Elsewhere, medical researchers questioned the use of
selection criteria. Others suspected that alcoholism could not be treated with any
chemical substance at all, and still others challenged the Saskatchewan research
group to repeat their results using a variety of controlled trials.
The leading organization for drug and alcohol research in Canada, the Ad-
dictions Research Foundation (ARF) in Toronto, weighed into the debates over
psychedelic treatments with its own set of LSD studies. In a series of publica-
tions in the Quarterly Journal for Studies on Alcohol, ARF researchers Reginald
Smart and Thomas Storm criticized the Saskatchewan LSD treatments for their
lack of proper scientific methodology and discarded Jensen’s publication as an
unsatisfactory controlled trial. They contended that the results coming from
Saskatchewan presented misleading conclusions because the investigators had
not employed appropriate controls that effectively isolated the reaction of the
drug from other confounding influences. In par tic u lar, the ARF criticisms
focused on the blatant disregard for environmental influences that could have
affected the capacity to produce an objective assessment of the effect of the
drug. Adjustments to the set and setting of the experimental context addi-
tionally complicated the outcome of the experiments, according to Smart and
Storm, further obstructing a clear analysis of the drug reaction. Reports claim-
ing that LSD helped alcoholics overcome their problem drinking therefore
presented misinformation about the efficacy of the drug. Until medical research-
ers conducted trials that controlled for environmental influences, the ARF
recommended publications endorsing the efficacy of psychedelic treatments be
discontinued.
In an effort to reevaluate LSD in treating alcoholism, the ARF conducted its
own trials in the mid-1960s. Researchers Reginald Smart, Thomas Storm, Wil-
liam Baker, and Lionel Solursh designed an experimental environment that
isolated the effects of the drugs before analyzing its efficacy. As a result, they
administered LSD to subjects and subsequently blindfolded, constrained them,
or both. They instructed observers not to interact with the subject, in an at-
tempt to concentrate on the reaction of the drug itself. This research design
aimed to minimize the influence of all factors but the drug reaction itself. This
approach tried to more adequately ascertain whether the drug offered genuine
benefits or whether the perceived advantages merely inspired clinical enthusi-
asm that corrupted the real outcomes. Subjects used in the ARF study did show
some improvements, but overall the results from this controlled trial demon-
strated that LSD did not produce results analogous to those claimed by the Sas-
katchewan group. Conclusions from the ARF trial indicated the ineffectiveness
of LSD when measured under controlled circumstances. Given the authority
vested in controlled trial methodology, the ARF study presented a damaging
criticism.53
The researchers in Saskatchewan responded by arguing that the research
design itself functioned as a contributing factor to the negative results accumu-
lated by the ARF. The controls applied in the ARF study, they argued, facilitated
more frightening reactions in patients by reducing the comfort level for the
subject and raising apprehensions about the trial. Their personal and clinical
experience with the drug strongly indicated that the environment had a signifi-
cant effect on the results of the trial and while they disagreed over which influ-
Highs and Lows 75
ence had the most significant effect—environment or drug—they insisted that

both demanded consideration when evaluating a psychedelic experience. By
placing controls on this important influence, the ARF study, according to Hof-
fer and Osmond, no longer investigated the subject’s experience but instead
merely measured the existence of a reaction.
Hoffer responded to the study with disdain, arguing that the ARF’s position
had very little to do with scientific methodology. He suggested that the ARF’s
unwillingness to consider their disease model and its corresponding treatment
regimen had devastating consequences for patients. Moreover, he believed that
the ARF continued to rely on sociological indicators of alcoholism, which com-
pounded the problem of stigma that prevented alcoholics from seeking medical
support. In a letter to a sympathetic colleague at the North Dakota Commission
on Alcoholism, Hoffer complained: “The worst thing we have to face in alcohol-
ism work is the feeling of hopelessness, inertia, and despair so common to
many of our colleagues in this field. They really do not believe alcoholics can be
helped and so divert themselves in empty statistical or sociological studies.
Even if alcoholism is more prevalent in a certain socio- economic class, are we
going to sit back and wait for some miracle to send them up two rungs in the
socio- economic ladder? . . . We have to treat alcoholism with no discrimina-
tion.” Hoffer and Osmond believed that their LSD research could scientifically
demonstrate the futility of such self- defeating arguments.54
Despite the critique from the ARF, a number of clinical studies from outside
Canada shared the Saskatchewan group’s fundamental contention that the
psychedelic treatments pointed clinicians toward a more sophisticated under-
standing of mental illness and its treatments. A Danish study published in
1962 argued that the effects of LSD produced fear and anxiety in patients that
scared them into sobriety, though they concluded that the patient’s consequent
abstinence from drinking had nothing to do with biochemistry. Although this
article did not support the biochemical perspective, it nonetheless recom-
mended expending additional research energy on investigating the psychologi-
cal and spiritual characteristics of mental illnesses. In 1966, a Czechoslovakian
study reported “good” results with LSD treatments for personality disorders,
but very poor results with trials on alcoholics. Once again, although these pub-
lications did not confirm Jensen’s statistics, they continued to reinforce the im-
portance of exploring the kinds of reactions elicited by psychedelic treatment
approaches. By the end of the decade, supporters of the psychedelic approach to
treating alcoholism attempted to construct controlled experiments that would
satisfy the growing professional commitment to controlled-trial methodology.
Leo Hollister in California reported negative results and Ray Denson in Saska-
toon countered with favorable results when they independently published the
outcomes of LSD treatments in controlled-trial experiments. The ongoing de-
bates in the medical journals underlined the necessity of evaluating subjective
reactions in drug experiments. Advocates of this approach insisted that the sub-
jective reaction deserved attention that observers could not necessarily appreci-
ate in a rigidly controlled setting.55
Medical researchers in British Columbia investigated the therapeutic appli-
cation of LSD and the program developed on the prairies received substantial
support. J. R. (Ross) MacLean at Hollywood Hospital in New Westminster em-
ployed a method adopted directly from the Saskatchewan model. He subse-
quently published his results, strongly supporting the psychedelic treatment.
MacLean worked closely with Hubbard and manipulated the set and setting of
the therapeutic environment as part of the treatment, which, he claimed, pro-
duced even greater rates of recovery.56
In a letter to Hoffer MacLean said, “this treatment cannot and must not be
viewed as a miraculous panacea, but it is a very promising approach. We and
others have had sufficient evidence of its efficacy to know that we are not deal-
ing with a placebo reaction or coincidental spontaneous remission.” MacLean,
like Jensen, maintained that evaluations of psychedelic therapies required con-
trols that permitted comparison with other treatment methods. Comparative
trials convincingly demonstrated the efficacy of the psychedelic therapy, but the
comparative methodology did not hold the same currency expressed by experi-
mental designs that controlled for multiple influences. Controlled trials that
isolated the drug reaction, however, missed the central philosophy behind the
psychedelic approach. Judging by MacLean’s and Jensen’s continued efforts to
present their work as part of mainstream psychopharmacological research, they
deferred to the scientific authority vested in controlled trials. Nonetheless, they
refused to accept a rigid interpretation of controls that subsequently ignored
subjective experiences and distortions in perception in the clinical evaluation of
a drug.57
An LSD trial conducted at the Veterans Administration Hospital in Topeka,
Kansas, recommended psychedelic treatment with the proviso that scientific
consideration extend to the research environment for its centrality in stimulat-
ing specific drug reactions. These American researchers underlined the impor-
tance of the environment and observed that “the event is profound and the drug
seems to individualize, taking the patient’s perception, distorting it and reinte-
grating it in a meaningful, positive direction. I feel that it is the responsibility of
Highs and Lows 77
all medical people to keep an open mind concerning the drug.” Medical re-
searchers in Czechoslovakia applauded the Saskatchewan group’s pioneering
efforts in bringing the experiential dimension under scientific analysis, while
remaining cautious about how much to conclude about the role of the setting in
therapy. These complementary and independent studies confirmed Osmond’s
original contention that the distortion in perception, identified in both the drug
reactions and in various mental illnesses, required a medical understanding
that appreciated subjective experiences.58
Despite a growing cadre of perspectives supporting the extension of medical
discourse into the subjective realm of experience, the contemporary explosion
of pharmaceutical treatments in general and psychiatric medicine, in par ticu-
lar, relied upon increasing objective measures as a mark of modern medicosci-
entific methodology. The psychedelic drugs shared historical precedents with
the discovery and synthesis of many of these chemical substances, but drugs
such as LSD engaged clinical investigators in methodological debates about the
authority of the controlled trial. As psychedelic practitioners continued to em-
phasize a philosophical agenda, their approach moved farther from the center
of mainstream clinical research. Meanwhile, other psychopharmacological sub-
stances, such as antipsychotic and antidepressant medications, assumed a more
typical image of psychopharmacological efficacy. These drugs, in contrast to
LSD, flourished in controlled trials where they repeatedly demonstrated their
capacity to reduce symptoms in patients. Their success also represented the tri-
umph of a par ticular methodological approach that solidified specific standards
for empiricism in psychiatric discourse.
Psychedelic psychiatrists felt that conventional psychiatric drug treatments,
which required extended periods of compliance, did not address issues of per-
sonal control but instead created another kind of dependence. The LSD treat-
ment, by contrast, offered one intense therapy session that promised to restore
control to the patient. Hoffer and Osmond reasoned that this approach demon-
strated confidence in the biochemical model, but their endorsement of this
method also suggested their desire for further consideration of the culmination
of nonmedical factors in therapy. Their approach suited plans for health care re-
forms in Saskatchewan by offering a medical model that treated mental and
physical diseases together and relied on a relatively inexpensive therapy. The in-
tensity of the single experience appealed to patients as an appropriate method for
treating a predominantly male disease, a disease that allegedly developed out of
an unhealthy obsession with displaying machismo. The restoration of self-control
generated by the LSD treatment expanded optimism that alcoholism would not
irreparably damage communities and families. Although a decade later LSD it-
self succumbed to a socially constructed view of it as a dangerous substance, in
1950s Saskatchewan LSD played a prominent role in reconstructing alcoholism
as disease. The growing public perception of drunkenness as a disease rein-
forced the need for medical attention and, moreover, redefined problem drink-
ing behaviors as something that could be cured. The LSD treatments not only
supported medical models of alcoholism but also provided a strong appeal to
policy makers, religious leaders, and laypeople to recognize alcoholism as a dis-
ease with cultural and medical implications for its identification and treatment.
chapter four
Keeping Tabs on Science

and Spirituality
In the mid-1950s, alcoholism studies gathered momentum among a widen-

ing circle of experimenters as the Saskatchewan-based researchers broadened
their networks. Psychedelic psychiatry began to emerge as a viable approach
worthy of expanded interrogation, in part because the Saskatchewan group
made sympathetic contacts in British Columbia, New York, and California. To
that end, what had formerly been a loose coalition of interested researchers
now emerged as a committed group of connected individuals seeking institu-
tional legitimacy for psychedelic studies. Teaming up with writers, scientists,
and clinicians, a more extensive community of LSD investigators began search-
ing for new ways to enhance the scope of their studies. They convened interna-
tional conferences, established new professional societies, and considered
alternative applications for LSD. However, they also encountered new chal-
lenges as their work became more widely known outside the medical and sci-
entific communities.
The new cadre of investigators began applying the drug to nonmedical uses,
in par ticular they began exploring how the drug could be used to enhance crea-
tivity and spirituality. This development attracted new experimenters, espe-
cially those outside the medical community, but it also forced some of the
original clinical investigators to confront these emerging trends and consider
whether or not factors such as creativity and spirituality could or should belong
in the medical arena. Hoffer and Osmond had confronted these questions in
some of their trials with alcoholics, but they framed their initial studies in
medicoscientific language to steer the results directly into the medical field. As
they continued working in this area, however, they gained a reputation as ex-
perts on LSD and other research groups sought institutional guidance from
them for exploring some of the nonmedical dimensions of psychedelic drugs.

For example, the Native American Church of North America contacted the
Saskatchewan-based LSD investigators seeking scientific expertise to support
the continued use of peyote for religious ceremonies. The peyote cactus, whose
psychoactive ingredient is mescaline, had been consumed as part of a religious
ritual for centuries, but the police and government officials were paying more
attention to its use during this period because they were concerned that it was
contributing to high rates of crime and violence among Native Americans and
Canadians. In a highly politicized environment, Hoffer, Osmond, and others
evaluated peyote in an explicitly nonmedical setting. While the Native Ameri-
can Church represented one kind of nonmedical use of psychedelics, other
users—including writers, artists, and curious but well- connected people—began
justifying their use of LSD on the basis that it might help to form a new reli-
gion, or at least might augment creativity. Elements of spirituality and creativity
crept into the growing lore about LSD and produced divisions within the psych-
edelic community over the role of spirituality in medicine and the scientific
value of psychedelic experiences.
As research interests diversified and LSD investigations took a more philo-
sophical turn, the Sandoz Pharmaceutical Company in Switzerland expressed
a growing reluctance to make its drug available for experimental applications.
Consequently, biochemists and amateur scientists attempted to develop their
own formulas for manufacturing LSD, thereby affecting the distribution of
the drug as well as its potency and consistency. Sandoz responded by conduct-
ing an evaluation of the various psychedelic-like substances available to re-
searchers and worked with trusted colleagues and national governments to
implement regulations for ensuring safe access to legitimate sources of the
drug.
By the end of the decade, psychedelic psychiatry became something of a para-
dox. On the one hand its therapeutic applications were being tested in locations
throughout North America, with attempts to conform to scientific guidelines.
On the other hand, the drug, still more or less confined to a select community,
was increasingly used to explore consciousness, creativity, and spirituality in
ways that threatened to undermine any scientific credibility connecting LSD
with therapy. Leading up to an explosion of recreational, often illegal, drug use
in the latter half of the 1960s, LSD investigators in the late 1950s enjoyed relative
freedom and flexibility to explore these drugs while still cushioned from exter-
nal criticism by upholding the prerogative of the medical sciences to determine
the value of a psychoactive substance.
Keeping Tabs on Science and Spirituality 81
Peyotism
In February 1953, the Canadian federal government, along with the Royal
Canadian Mounted Police and the local Indian agents in Alberta and Saskatch-
ewan, grew uncomfortable with the connection between the consumption of
peyote and violence. Their concerns stemmed from an incident involving as-
sault and rape within the Sunchild Cree First Nations in Alberta; the accused
had allegedly consumed peyote obtained from local sources in Alberta and Sas-
katchewan. The superintendent of the Stony/Sarcee Indian Agency reported on
the use of peyote to his regional supervisor in Calgary, claiming that “peyotism”
was one of the central activities of the “cult” and that furthermore the drug use
had a “demoralizing influence on the reserve”; he concluded by recommending
to the federal government that peyote be formally recognized as a harmful drug
and placed on the narcotic list.1 This and other stories linking peyote and vio-
lence attracted international attention from Native American religious groups,
federal government representatives, police and customs officials, and local
medical researchers with an interest in these psychoactive substances. The en-
suing discussions ostensibly centered on the legal status of peyote, but it re-
vealed racial and religious tensions and encouraged deeper investigations into
the relationship between medicine and spirituality.
In 1956, Native Canadians, through the Native American Church of North
America, invited medical researchers to participate in a peyote ceremony in
Saskatchewan. In an all-night session of a sacred ritual, participants, including
some of the white observers, consumed peyote. Hoffer and Osmond’s familiar-
ity with mescaline made them attractive candidates for what escalated into a
campaign among North American Indians to retain access to peyote. Peyote
had a long history of use among North and South American Indians for reli-
gious and medicinal purposes. While Hoffer, in par ticular, exhibited a desire to
participate in the ritual as a means of exploring the biochemical healing proper-
ties of the peyote cactus, some of his colleagues did so in order to witness the
importance of the spiritual dimension of healing. In October 1956, when four
white men joined the Red Pheasant Band in northern Saskatchewan in a peyote
ceremony, the result was a collision of races, cultures, perspectives, and philoso-
phies that made a profound impression on the white scientists.
By observing other cultural practices and associated traditional rituals that
combined prayer with drug use, the medical scientists engaged in ethnographic
studies or participant observation. Some scholars have criticized this approach
as a form of cultural appropriation, whereby the white, male scientists adapted

foreign cultural practices to suit their own needs or to lend legitimacy to their
studies by borrowing experiences from other traditions with insufficient appre-
ciation of their cultural significance or meaning. Psychedelic drug studies of-
ten ventured into this territory, particularly as theories about these drugs
expanded and incorporated religious and spiritual explanations for the reac-
tions and indeed relied upon religious theories for explaining the LSD experi-
ence. Some users related the experiences to those described in Eastern religions,
while others looked to studies of the paranormal to explain the psychological
effects of LSD.2 With respect to the Native American religious connections,
there appears to have been a degree of negotiation between the scientists and
the religious participants. The medical investigators undeniably benefited from
witnessing and participating in the peyote ceremony, and they later helped de-
fend the right to maintain legal access to peyote for religious rites and even
emphasized that these rites were part of a distinctive Native American culture.
Their defense also acknowledged the positive role that peyote might play in as-
similation, both religiously and culturally.
Mescaline, a chemical already familiar to scientists such as Hoffer and
Osmond, was known to be one of the active constituents in the peyote cactus;
it was later identified as the principal active component. This plant, which grew
naturally in the Rio Grande Valley, had long been part of sacred ceremonies
in American Indian religious practices. The flowering segments of the cactus,
or buttons, contained psychoactive alkaloids, including mescaline. When
consumed, usually four buttons per person, peyote caused “hallucinations . . .
diffuse anxiety, motor abnormality, and temporary action on the ner vous
system, over which the individual has no control. It also impairs color and space
perceptions.”3
Peyote ceremonies formed a regular part of the Native American Church
rituals in Central and North America, and its practice expanded northward into
Canada in the early half of the twentieth century. The ceremony itself varied
from group to group but frequently involved an overnight gathering on a Satur-
day, usually in a tipi; participants ate four peyote buttons (although several re-
ports indicate that some members ate much larger quantities) and engaged in a
highly ritualized observance that included drumming, singing, praying, smok-
ing, and meditation or self-reflection; it often ended with a feast, followed by a
resting period.4
The drug and its associated rituals had attracted attention from scientists,
anthropologists, and policy makers since the nineteenth century, and succes-
sive investigations emphasized that peyote was not addictive and did not engen-
der violence, but that its spiritual properties remained poorly understood.
Heinrich Klüver published one of the most comprehensive scientific studies of
peyote in 1928. Combining botanical, chemical, and ethnographical perspec-
tives, Klüver presented a detailed description of the plant and the ceremonies
and thus provided a consolidated account of peyote. He concluded that the sci-
entific understanding of the psychoactive alkaloids in peyote, including L. lewi-
nii mescaline, anhalonine, anhalonidine, and lophophorine, required closer
examination before pronouncing their psychological effects. He believed that
while biochemists had successfully identified the active constituents in this
plant, they understood very little about its physiological and psychological ef-
fects, or the variance in doses from plant to plant, or their effects on different
people. In terms of its cultural meaning, Klüver regarded the spread of peyo-
tism among North American Indian groups as a reaction to, and adaptation of,
Christianity.5
Medical scientists and ethnographers who studied mescaline in the 1950s
agreed with his assessment. One reporter suggested that “since most of them
accept the Trinity and Christian ethic, they claim their Native American church
is the ‘Indian version of Christianity.’ Peyote, they say, gives them ‘power’ to
talk directly to God or Jesus, as did their ancestors to the Great Spirit.” The mix-
ture of native spirituality and Christian religion became an important tenet in
the subsequent efforts to defend peyotism amid claims of its association with
cult activities against the backdrop of concerted efforts to promote Native Amer-
ican assimilation.6
Beyond the spiritual importance of peyote for its ability to invoke mystic vi-
sions, it was considered an important prophylactic against alcoholism. The ex-
planation for this connection was dependent on the observer. Medical scientists
such as Hoffer believed that the alkaloid mescaline offered a biochemical reac-
tion, like LSD, so participants in peyote ceremonies might have the same re-
sponse as alcoholics undergoing LSD treatments. Others, particularly Native
American religious leaders, believed that peyotism engendered observance of
moral principles that included abstinence from alcohol and adherence to chas-
tity; in other words, religious faith provided the impetus for sobriety. Defenders
of peyotism relied on both these perspectives when the governments threatened
to criminalize peyote.
Attempts by the Canadian and U.S. federal governments to criminalize pe-
yote use represented to native leaders yet another act of colonialism, this time
aimed at destroying their religion. Frank Takes Gun, president of the Native
American Church of North America, sought the support of medical scientists

in his campaign to retain legal access to peyote. In his letter to Abram Hoffer he
stated that the Indian people “have sacrificed their God-given lands to the Gov-
ernment and what little lands they have left, they ought to be left alone so that
they can worship according to the dictates of their conscience.” Takes Gun’s de-
cision to contact Hoffer was part of a campaign to involve strategic allies, espe-
cially white male scientists, in the campaign to keep peyote ceremonies legal.7
Hoffer and Osmond’s research into mind-altering substances had gained
them notoriety among their medical colleagues and the political authorities in
Saskatchewan, as well as, to a lesser extent, politicians at the federal level in Ot-
tawa. Growing anxieties over peyote use catapulted them into the middle of
discussions about the drug, while representatives from both sides of the debate
sought their sympathies. Government officials in the Food and Drugs Division
appealed to these men as scientists who would recognize that peyote use led to
fatalities and the further destruction of the Indian people. Moreover, the federal
Department of Health and Welfare held that because peyote ceremonies had
traditionally taken place in the southern United States, claims for its religious
use in western Canada were artificial and unconvincing. 8 Federal bureaucrats
who believed that the Canadian Indian people merely adopted the peyote cere-
mony as an antagonistic gesture hoped that Hoffer and Osmond’s research into
hallucinogenic drugs would help prove that peyotism had no medicinal or reli-
gious benefits.
Writing to Hoffer in 1956, the Canadian director of Indian and Northern
Health Ser vices, P. E. Moore, dismissed the peyote ceremony as “disgusting.”
Moore pressed Hoffer to provide him with the necessary scientific evidence to
prove that peyote was a narcotic, capable of producing hazardous health conse-
quences: “We are anxious to control the use of this substance among Indians. I
do not believe that if any thinking man had direct knowledge of the disgusting
orgies that occur when these peyote sprees are indulged in by groups of Indi-
ans, he would hesitate to take drastic steps to curtail its use.” He went on to
enumerate claims of rape, violence, and even death related to peyote use and
concluded by urging Hoffer to support federal initiatives to classify peyote as a
narcotic.9
Representatives from the Indian community also wrote to Hoffer, in their
case to explain the sacred religious importance of the peyote ceremony and to
ask for Hoffer’s scientific advice on whether it was harmful. Local western Ca-
nadian experiences, as expressed by Ernest Nicoline, a member of the Red
Pheasant Band in Saskatchewan, suggested that the deaths associated with pe-
yote use had nothing to do with the drug itself. In fact, Nicoline stressed to Hof-
fer that he knew of no deaths connected to peyote even among longtime users;
its main purpose was in worship. Nicoline closed by inviting Hoffer to witness
the peyote ceremony for himself before drawing formal conclusions. Hoffer re-
sponded by offering advice based on their recent investigations with LSD and
mescaline; he also seized the opportunity to extend his own biochemical stud-
ies by drawing upon the extensive knowledge and experiences of the local pe-
yote practitioners.10
The invitation to witness the peyote ceremony gave Hoffer an opening to test
his theories concerning the relationship between mescaline and alcoholism in an
unanticipated and nonclinical setting. In a letter to friend and socialist intellec-
tual Carlyle King, Hoffer defended this perspective and explained that the peyote
ceremony “may be a most interesting socialized experiment in the making. I
would be quite content to see all the Indians in Saskatchewan adopt this religion
since it means that they will not consume any alcohol. . . . Indians are not accus-
tomed to the white man’s poison and should stay away from it.” In this letter Hof-
fer not only expressed some of the contemporary, and race-based, concerns about
alcoholism on Canadian reserves but also revealed his desire to study traditional
approaches to treating alcohol abuse with chemical therapies. The religious or
spiritual element of the ritual seemed, at best, secondary for Hoffer.11
Following careful planning and negotiation between mental health research-
ers, Indian representatives, and government officials, five researchers agreed to
participate in a legal peyote ceremony over the weekend of October 5 and 6,
1956. Ultimately only four researchers attended the ceremony, Hoffer, Osmond,
Blewett, and psychologist Teddy Weckowicz, accompanied by a journalist from
the Saskatoon Star-Phoenix. Three of the researchers participated fully, while
Hoffer was merely an observer. They took field notes and tape-recorded the ten-
hour event, which involved smoking tobacco, eating peyote buttons, drumming,
singing, praying, and meditating. The next week the Saskatoon Star-Phoenix
reporter, Doug Sagi, published his account of the activities in a multipage
spread with an evocative headline, “White Men Witness Indian Peyote Rites,”
thus reinforcing cultural and racial anxieties about mixing Native American
rituals with drugs.12
Sagi’s story played up the significance of the event as a symbol of the cultural
collision that had long characterized native and nonnative relations in North
America. He explained to readers that the site of the ceremony, Fort Battleford,
was strategically chosen, in part for its proximity to electrical outlets for the use
of tape recorders, but also because eighty years earlier the same site had been
A peyote ceremony of the Native American Church of North America in October 1956.
Top, Hoffer, Osmond, two other medical researchers, and a journalist attended the
ceremony. Photo no. S-SP-B5983-33. Bottom, The reporter who participated wrote an
article about the ceremony for the Saskatoon Star-Phoenix. Photo no. S-SP-B5983-24.
Photos courtesy of Saskatchewan Archives Board, Star-Phoenix Collection.
used for the negotiations of Treaty Number Six between the Canadian federal
government and the Cree Indian Nation. Sagi suggested that “the same spot was
chosen because the Indians wished to promote greater understanding among
the white men regarding their church.” He went on to describe how the cere-
mony reflected an undeniably Christian quality, claiming that “the ethics and
beliefs of peyotism are largely Christian although the ceremony itself is founded
on pre- Columbian rituals. The Indians say their church has been Christianized
and [they] pray during their ser vices to ‘Blessed Jesus.’ ” Sagi’s sympathetic tone
offered a salve for the previous antagonistic accounts that had linked peyotism
with orgies and violence. At the same time, his commentary illustrated the gulf
separating whiteness and science from nonwhiteness and mysticism.13
Duncan Blewett, one of the psychologists who participated in the ceremony,
initially directed his comments to other local media accounts, which he felt had
poorly represented the event. In his written response, he too stressed the impor-
tance of recognizing the inherent Christian components of the Native Ameri-
can rituals. While simultaneously defending the right to freedom of religion, he
nonetheless emphasized that peyotism was a Christian religion. Blewett argued
that “any move to prohibit the use of peyote in the Native American Church can
be interpreted by its members only as an expression of religious prejudice and
persecution.” He went further, encouraging religious practices of this sort that
might facilitate the process of assimilation to North American cultural ideals.
He suggested that the nonnative population should encourage the spread of this
native religion, which he felt did embrace ideas of Christianity. Although
Blewett undoubtedly attempted to promote a greater level of understanding, his
comments reinforced the attitude that Christian values were superior to other
religious precepts and that peyotism offered a convenient mechanism for stim-
ulating or maintaining non- Christian spiritual conversions. Blewett felt that,
like LSD-inspired insights for alcoholics, peyote provided users with an experi-
ence that brought together ritual with self-reflection in a beneficial manner.
Furthermore, he implied that it did not matter whether the experience was bio-
chemical or spiritual so long as the results remained progressive.14
Osmond avoided the media at first, directing his initial comments in a letter
to Frank Takes Gun, president of the Native American Church. Although Os-
mond too recognized similarities with Christian observances, he drew a dis-
tinction between peyotism and Christian rites. Perhaps in an effort to be
diplomatic, he concentrated on describing how the experience deepened his
own understanding of the North American Indian people. “I found the cere-
mony extremely beautiful and felt that I had a much greater understanding of
the Indian’s way of life, his way of looking at things, his hopes and fears, and
[the] very harsh time he has endured in the last hundred years or so, and the
part that peyote may play in giving him back the confidence and self-respect
that he had almost lost, and making good use of the courage that he has never
lost in his struggle with an overwhelmingly powerful, unscrupulous and un-
thinking opponent (the white man).” Osmond’s sympathetic letter closed with a
promise to use his and his colleagues’ authority to support the Native American
Church in its efforts to retain access to peyote for religious purposes. He as-
sured Takes Gun that they would employ “all our abilities and see that the Indi-
ans get a square deal and are not imposed upon by well-meaning officials and
public people who . . . have made no attempt to find out what in fact goes on in
the ser vices of the Church.” His views expressed a respect for the Native Ameri-
can Church and were consistent with his approach as a psychiatrist who went to
great efforts to understand the perspectives of his patients or subjects.15
All the white observers, Hoffer, Blewett, Osmond, and Weckowicz, main-
tained that peyote should not be classified as a narcotic and that it should be
available for religious observances. Osmond went one step further, recommend-
ing that peyote should only be available to members of the Native American
Church until such time as they decide to invite “white men” to partake in these
sacraments. As promised, they collected scientific data from research units
throughout North America that supported their contention that peyote was not
addictive, that it remained harmless when consumed as part of a religious rite,
and that moreover it might bring some benefits to the user under appropriate,
supervised conditions.16
Their recommendations about peyote were remarkably consistent with their
views on LSD, and yet the experience of witnessing the ceremony, with varying
levels of participation, began to reveal significant differences in their individual
attitudes toward the cultural and medical values of psychedelic drugs. Blewett
seemed content to explore the spiritual meaning of the drug reaction, whether
it took place in a formalized religious setting or in the clinic; he recognized that
this factor represented a critical departure from psychotherapeutic or chemical
therapies alone and demanded further experimentation and reflection. Osmond
remained intent on achieving empathetic insight by simulating experience and
therefore paid closer attention to the historical and environmental circum-
stances that shaped an experience. Hoffer continued to stress the importance of
biochemistry for understanding how the reactions occurred and varied across
populations. Although he exhibited a certain degree of deference to both Blewett
and Osmond in their self- consciously nonbiochemical investigations, Hoffer
increasingly distinguished himself as an observer rather than a participant and

foremost as a medical scientist rather than a medical therapist.
“Captain Trips”
While the Canadian researchers’ involvement in the peyote ceremony politi-
cized their work in a specifically cultural and even racialized manner, their
clinical investigations began expanding in other ways, particularly as they came
into contact with other curious investigators and encountered additional re-
sources and techniques. During the latter half of the 1950s, as Hoffer and Os-
mond began to publish their results in medical journals, they connected with
other researchers who expressed similar interests. Some of these connections
crossed disciplinary boundaries and increasingly their liaisons with other en-
thusiasts propelled LSD studies into new territory, geographically and cultur-
ally. Al Hubbard, affectionately referred to as “Captain Trips,” emerged during
this period as one of the most instrumental people committed to expanding the
horizon of LSD explorations.
Hoffer encountered Hubbard in 1955 and almost immediately began engag-
ing in regular communication with him. When they met, Hubbard lived in Brit-
ish Columbia. He changed jobs several times: scientific director of the Uranium
Corporation of British Columbia; “Captain” A. M. Hubbard, scientific director
of the Commission for the Study of Creative Imagination, later adopting “Dr.”
as part of his title; and by the end of the decade he worked at Hollywood Hospi-
tal in New Westminster, British Columbia, as the director of psychological re-
search. Hubbard was rumored to be an independently wealthy, former CIA
agent from Kentucky, who earned his title as “captain” from time spent with the
U.S. Air Force; the ambiguous moniker “trips” may have referred to his fre-
quent flights, his drug use, or both. Although the absence of archival records
makes Hubbard’s personal history difficult to substantiate, his reputation
among psychedelic investigators became legendary.17 He wrote frequent letters
to other psychedelic researchers, including the group in Saskatchewan. Duncan
Blewett claimed that the history of acid would have been very different without
Hubbard; the Captain seemed to know more about LSD than anyone.18
Hubbard’s earliest letters to Hoffer, in May 1955, suggest that Hubbard had
been attracted to the Saskatchewan-based investigations into the use of LSD for
treating alcoholism. He praised Hoffer and Osmond for their sophisticated and
cutting-edge studies, which he felt outpaced contemporaneous experiments tak-
ing place in the United States, and he expressed a keen interest in collaboration.
He confided to Hoffer, “I do hope he [Osmond] keeps you informed of our vari-

ous LSD experiments, some of which are most remarkable; compared to some of
the childish work that is being done with this material in the States they should
make outstanding news some day.” In addition to his enthusiasm for working
collaboratively, Hubbard developed his own techniques for testing LSD.19
Undaunted by his lack of medical training, Hubbard experimented with
LSD, mescaline, and other hallucinogen- causing drugs and would often relay
his results to Hoffer. For example, as early as 1955, he suggested that mesca-
line could be used in place of LSD for treating alcoholism, a suggestion that
Hoffer incorporated into his own experiments. Hoffer responded with a rec-
ommendation to try nicotinic acid, a B vitamin, in combination with LSD for
controlling reactions. It is unclear from their correspondence whether Hoffer
knew where Hubbard conducted his experiments, under what auspices, or
with which patients (in private clinics or in state facilities), and their collabo-
ration made little mention of the ethical challenges facing a nonmedical
investigator. 20
Occasionally, Hubbard visited the clinical researchers in Saskatchewan and
participated directly in their trials. In one instance he sat in on one of Hoffer,
Osmond, and Blewett’s experiments. Hoffer complimented Hubbard’s tech-
nique when he wrote, “I was especially intrigued by the way you handled the
subjects while under the influence of mescalin [sic]. You show great warmth and
understanding of the subject who is undergoing the experiment.” Whether
Hubbard himself had consumed mescaline for that experiment is not clear, but
Hoffer undeniably praised him for his highly sophisticated approach. At this
same meeting, Hubbard explained that he had been incorporating changes to
the experimental setting into his work.21
While Hubbard’s personal experiences with LSD and mescaline were infa-
mous in psychedelic research circles, he also made some fundamental adjust-
ments to how the experiments took place. In par ticular, he began developing
theories that would later be explained by his clinical colleagues as “set and set-
ting.” Set and setting became a concept that routinely entered into the trials
with LSD; it involved achieving the right conditions for establishing the “set,” or
state of mind of the subject undergoing the experience, as well as the “setting,”
or environment in which the experiment occurred. Preparing the set and set-
ting often involved conversations with subjects about the sensory disorienting
effects of the drug and finding suitable locations for conducting the experi-
ment. Hubbard paid close attention to the perceptual cues in the environment,
which often meant within a clinic or hospital office. His own experiences en-
couraged him to appreciate how the drug affected his senses, his conscious-
ness, and his notions of space and time. These observations inspired him to add
stimuli to the environment to test the relationship between the environmental
setting and psychological reactions to the drugs.22
Duncan Blewett and his colleague Nick Chwelos elaborated these concepts
in Handbook for the Therapeutic Use of Lysergic-Acid Diethylamide 25, Individual
and Group Procedures, originally published in 1959. In this guidebook, which
became a rather comprehensive manual for conducting LSD experiments, the
authors articulated a series of specific considerations for designing the opti-
mum set and setting.
Chapter 6, The Setting
The setting in which the treatment session is to be conducted must be comfort-

able and quiet. Frequently the subject may feel like lying down. It is best to pro-
vide enough chesterfields [sofas], cots or beds so that each person who has had the
drug has a place to stretch out comfortable.
The place should be quiet, not only as far as the general noise level is con-
cerned but particularly in terms of interruptions of intrusions of the outside
world upon the experience. Worries about getting home for supper or getting
certain work done are disruptive and all such interference should be reduced as
much as possible. People coming into the room can cause the subject to become
upset, particularly from the second to the eighth hour after he has taken the drug.
If a group is to be used, all members should be present when the experience be-
gins. Other intrusions should be present when the experience begins. Other in-
trusions should be kept to a minimum. This is more difficult than it at first
appears because LSD therapy usually catches the imagination and provokes the
curiosity of nearly all the staff members of the unit involved. Many people will
find excellent reasons to be in and out of the treatment room unless the policy of
no visitors is established.
The telephone too can be exceptionally disturbing. It is often the greatest nui-
sance in a session. If the telephone is in the treatment room, the noise of its ring-
ing is a bother but no matter where it is, it is troublesome for the person called,
whether or not he has taken the drug, to completely alter his frame of reference
such that he can conduct a normal telephone conversation. As much as possible,
telephone calls should be held up.
At times, particularly in individual sessions, the subject may become extremely
restless or violent. At the height of this disturbed state he is apt to knock or throw
things about. For this reason it is wise to use fairly durable furnishings.
Washroom facilities should be relatively near by. It is often a severe strain on

the subject to have to walk through a ward or indeed to walk any distance under
the effect of the drug. Also, in subjects who become paranoid, the trip to the
washroom offers opportunity for them to attempt to get away from the session.
Chapter 7, Equipment
A record player and a dozen or so recordings of classical selections covering a va-

riety of moods are so useful as to [be] virtually essential. Music is an important
feature in permitting the person to get outside his usual self- concept.
Other useful equipment includes paintings, photographs of the subject’s rela-
tives, collections of photographs such as the Family of Man series, flowers and
gems. A mirror is particularly useful. The subject often can use his reflection in
the mirror more objectively than himself and can frequently clarify many aspects
of his own self- concept by studying his reflection though it is unwise to present
the subject with the mirror until he has worked through the more frightening
stages of self-appraisal and has gained at least some degree of self-acceptance. For
this reason the mirror should not be mounted on the wall.
Frequently one of the side effects of the drug is a sensation of dryness in the
mouth and throat. The people in the experience may feel more than usually
thirsty and it is well to have a quantity of fruit juices on hand. The participants
may at times feel quite fatigued and may find chocolate or other candy a ready
source of additional energy. Fresh fruit provides a light food which is easy to eat
and keeps one from becoming excessively hungry during the day.
Niacin is useful in bringing a person out of the experience although this
should only be done in case of some emergency which necessitates the subject’s
leaving the experience. A dose of 400- 600 mgms. intravenously should be ade-
quate to terminate the experience. Unpleasant phases of the experience should
not lead to its termination as they most frequently indicate that the person is
working through some troublesome problem—often a necessary and beneficial
process leading to emotional growth.
After the session the subject may find difficulty in going to sleep although he
feels quite tired. For this reason it may be considered wise to give him a sedative
which he can use if he so desires.23
The Handbook consolidated some of the findings of the various research

units and drew extensively from Hubbard’s ideas about stimuli and Hoffer’s
studies of niacin for terminating the experience. The book circulated among
research units and encouraged investigators to continue exploring the influ-
ence of sensory stimuli and the emotional environment in the experimental

context.
Struck by the changes in visual perception, Hubbard added a stroboscope, or
flickering light, to the observation room. After learning about this technique,
Hoffer incorporated one in his own work. He found that subjects described
subtle changes in the experience when compared to reactions without such a
stimulus, generally consisting of recognizing different patterns, colors, and ge-
ometrical shapes emanating from the strobe light. They found similar changes
in reaction when they introduced a simple lamp. The addition of such features
aided in measur ing the timing of the reaction, both in terms of when the sen-
sory disruption began taking place but also when the effects of the drug were
beginning to wear off. These kinds of simple adjustments allowed the research-
ers to better gauge the LSD or mescaline reaction and provided information that
proved tremendously useful in explaining the anticipated effects to new
subjects.24
Hubbard, in concert with his Canadian and American colleagues, began ex-
perimenting with “set and setting” by manipulating the surroundings to pro-
duce different effects in the subjects. In addition to adjusting the lighting, he
introduced music, paintings, flowers, photographs, and religious iconography.
These objects served to stimulate sensory responses while also encouraging an
emotional reaction by invoking memories. As several case reports suggest, the
experience often involved a feeling of disorientation regarding the sensory ef-
fects. One observer remarked that he had the “indescribable feeling of hearing
colours, smelling colours, seeing sound and ‘seeing’ texture in a form which
was almost a direct tactile feeling with one’s eyeball or optic nerve.” Overall, the
effects of the drug distorted his perceptions and challenged his sense of reality.
Recognizing the effects of LSD on sensory perception, Hubbard manipulated
the environment to provoke different kinds of responses, and his findings en-
couraged others to more carefully examine the relationship between spatial
perceptions and emotional responses.25
Hubbard approached his task in a somewhat haphazard manner, without
conforming to a recognizable scientific methodology. He shared his results
with clinical scientists in North America. Many of his colleagues, including
Hoffer, Blewett, and Osmond, were intrigued by Hubbard’s approach and tried
to incorporate some of the same features in their own work. To that end, Hoffer
even volunteered some of his own subjects as candidates who might benefit
from Hubbard’s personal guidance. He invited Hubbard to join him in Saska-
toon in 1957, adding, “I look forward to seeing you here and to studying the
method you use with your alcoholics. We will arrange to have some of our alco-
holic friends available for this work.”26 Blewett and Chwelos relied heavily on
Hubbard’s input when they put together their handbook.27
Hubbard introduced new techniques into the field of psychedelic studies.
His methods offered exciting possibilities for examining perception. But adher-
ing to a more conventional scientific approach, one sanctioned by the medical
community, allowed researchers to continue publishing in mainstream aca-
demic journals. Many of Hubbard’s colleagues were conflicted over which route
to follow. Engaging in a political campaign to support peyote use for religious
purposes and incorporating some of Hubbard’s innovative, and cavalier, re-
search methods stretched the original objectives of the psychedelic studies. As
investigators felt compelled to choose the most appropriate application for their
studies, the options multiplied and the medical and cultural value of drugs
came into question. This situation perplexed investigators who were familiar
with LSD, but it also affected regulatory boards, governments, and the drug
manufacturers themselves, namely Sandoz Pharmaceuticals, who were con-
cerned that their product might become responsible for unorthodox therapies.
Supplies
Although Hubbard’s attention to set and setting refined the LSD studies and
often seemed to produce better results with subjects undergoing treatment, his
relationship with the clinical investigators in Saskatchewan strained resources
and exacerbated existing problems with obtaining the drug. Hubbard’s letters
to Hoffer regularly included a request for additional supplies. Sandoz had origi-
nally made LSD available to researchers upon request, but by the latter half of
the 1950s the pharmaceutical company was restricting access to clinical re-
searchers. Because Hubbard had no medical or scientific credentials, he was
ineligible to receive LSD directly from Sandoz. He relied on an extensive net-
work of clinical colleagues to provide him with the necessary materials.
Although Hoffer tried to use his connections with Sandoz Canada to resolve
this issue Hubbard looked for other solutions. He began pressing colleagues to
send him supplies, and he discovered that other firms were trying to replicate
the drug. In one letter he indicated to Hoffer he had found a biochemist friend
who agreed to make LSD for him. He seized upon this supplier and expressed
his confidence in the product: “He [the unnamed biochemist], of course, did
secure some from Sandos [sic], and then worked out a system for making it. He
is not like the Los Angeles group, however, and is not in it for the money, but
does supply it to competent right motivated researchers who cannot get it from
Sandos.”28 Hubbard also continued to obtain supplies directly from Hoffer.29
As the demand for LSD grew, Hoffer also looked beyond Sandoz. Hubbard
put Hoffer in contact with a biochemist in Seattle who had begun synthesizing
his own LSD, and Hoffer discovered a source in England that sold LSD to him
directly, apparently at great expense.30 Hubbard was not the only researcher
seeking LSD from Hoffer. Duncan Blewett and Nick Chwelos in Regina re-
ceived supplies through Hoffer. Hoffer, it seemed, had established a rapport
with the pharmaceutical firms, including Sandoz and Hoffman La Roche (the
latter being the main mescaline supplier), and he used his connections to pro-
vide his colleagues with sufficient materials to maintain their own projects.
Hoffer and Hubbard communicated regularly to keep tabs on the quality
and cost of supplies. Sandoz retained the reputation for producing the gold
standard in LSD, but competition began to proliferate. Hubbard wrote to Hof-
fer in 1958, claiming that: “I have just discovered a new source of LSD and it is
Lights Organic Chemicals, Poyle Trading Estate, Colenbrook, Buchs, England.
The price is about 35 cents per ampoule.” He concluded with a promise to com-
pare the new shipment with his Sandoz-produced stores. That new source
proved unsatisfactory. Hubbard found that the LSD became discolored and
chemically unstable after packages were opened. With concern over liability,
Hubbard decided to return the supplies, telling Hoffer that “if there is any
doubt about it at all we have too much at stake to risk tampering with it.” Hof-
fer counseled Hubbard to ask for his money back: “If the thing goes bad, there
is something wrong with it. It is quite possible that some compounds when put
up in strong concentrations do go bad but it always raises the question whether
you really have the thing which you are supposed to have.” The proliferation of
competitors raised suspicions about the quality and quantities of LSD available
to researchers, not to mention the question of access to the drug for nonmedi-
cal investigations.31
Hoffer’s distribution practices eventually landed him in difficulties with the
Canadian federal government and Sandoz Canada. Hubbard confided to Hoffer
that he had obtained LSD from several different suppliers over the years, includ-
ing biochemists at the University of British Columbia and the Delta Chemical
Company in New York. He knew of several firms who made their own LSD or
mescaline but whose products remained inferior and so he avoided purchasing
from them. Furthermore, Hubbard admitted that he had passed on supplies to
a number of others, including “various students” at the University of British
Columbia and the General Hospital in Vancouver. Hubbard’s statements clearly
alarmed Hoffer. Fearing a federal investigation of his practice, he insisted that

Hubbard locate his own supplies.32
Hoffer had good reason to worry. By the end of the decade questions about
LSD abounded. Did the drug have real therapeutic benefits and, if so, how could
they be satisfactorily evaluated? Did the drug have the capacity to enhance crea-
tivity? Did such a belief undermine its medicinal value or provide further clues
as to how the drug operated on a psychological level? But all such questions
about LSD in the clinical context would soon be overshadowed by widespread
fears about its use in the nonmedical context, particularly among college-age
youth. As investigators continued to press for sustained examinations of psych-
edelic drugs for therapeutic purposes, they also publicly supported continuance
of peyote ceremonies for religious reasons. In the course of these campaigns,
the scientific tenor of their studies weakened and a growing collection of re-
searchers developed a scattered agenda for testing the benefits of LSD. Although
individually, research groups during this period made some gains, the absence
of a coordinated strategy and the interdisciplinary, multiprofessional, and highly
politicized nature of the work left psychedelic studies with an untenable
agenda.
The Commission for the Study of Creative Imagination

While Hoffer, Osmond, and Blewett garnered publicity by participating in
the church peyote ceremony, their position on psychedelics was also beginning
to attract attention. Primarily through their relationship with Hubbard, they
met and communicated with psychedelic enthusiasts throughout North Amer-
ica, many of whom were not interested in medical research with these drugs.
And while Hoffer and Osmond had initiated their studies as carefully designed
clinical investigations, they were deeply curious about other applications that
the drug might have and relied on these others to supply such information. To
that end they kept in contact with nonmedical investigators and exchanged in-
sights and techniques for exploring LSD in ways that moved beyond the field of
medical science.
Hubbard’s quest for additional supplies of LSD revealed a growing collection
of researchers, enthusiasts, and amateur biochemists who gradually formed the
institutional basis for an emergent psychedelic network. Hubbard served as a
critical link in efforts to identify a network of supporters and sympathetic re-
sources. Hubbard put the relatively isolated group in Saskatchewan into contact
with a wider network of people in the United States, who began exchanging
ideas, techniques, findings, and supplies of LSD and mescaline. Osmond had
some connections with former colleagues in the UK and had maintained a
friendly relationship with Aldous Huxley. But Hubbard’s aggressive networking
and brimming enthusiasm for advancing psychedelic studies connected people
across geographical and professional boundaries.
He helped formalize those relationships in 1955 by cofounding the Commis-
sion for the Study of Creative Imagination. Headquartered in Vancouver, Brit-
ish Columbia, this commission provided an institutional framework for
psychedelic studies. Its founding board members were Abram Hoffer, Hum-
phry Osmond, John Smythies (then in the Department of Psychology at the
National University of Australia), William C. Gibson (University of British Co-
lumbia), Hugh L. Keenleyside (director of general technical assistance, United
Nations, New York), W. Klukauf (Mexico), Aldous Huxley (author, Los Angeles),
Gerald Heard (author, Los Angeles), and A. M. Hubbard (scientific director,
Vancouver).33 The commission may have been more a reflection of Hubbard’s
personal network than a strategic collection of people with like-minded profes-
sional objectives. The commission’s name also suggests a move away from
strictly medical investigations and toward the emergent field that linked psych-
edelics with creativity.
In one letter to Hoffer, Hubbard recounted the details of a trip back and forth
across the United States, where he checked on the status of various experi-
ments, delivered LSD, and even negotiated with government officials over the
need for sustained investigations. He explained that he had begun in California
where he conducted LSD experiments with Aldous Huxley and Gerald Heard.
From Los Angeles he traveled to New York, followed by a visit to Colorado
Springs where he gave LSD to “a lady doctor who [was] Secretary of the Board of
the University and a very wealthy woman.” On this same journey, Hubbard
stopped in Chicago to meet with two researchers to discuss their progress on
carbon dioxide therapy and to refresh himself on the status of mescaline stud-
ies. Before beginning the trip home to Vancouver, he stopped again in New York
and met with Gordon Wasson, who furnished Hubbard with funds to collect
and investigate the Amanita mushroom, known in China and Europe to pro-
duce altered states of consciousness. Pausing briefly in Maine to check on some
LSD investigations, he then proceeded west again to California for an update on
more LSD trials and a chance to meet with the attorney general of California to
discuss clearance for further investigations with mescaline and LSD. Hubbard’s
unique talents, resources, and connections made him a critical player in linking
disparate interests.34
Initially the commission used its membership to circulate information about

“hypotheses, methods of investigation, therapeutic techniques, raising and al-
locating of funds . . . [and] methods of dealing with or avoiding publication
hostile to the work of the psychodelics [sic],” and organizing the field into sub-
sections and committees to promote greater sophistication within the fledgling
psychedelic society.35 Although the commissioners met irregularly, their mem-
bership increased the flow of communication and financial as well as intellec-
tual support. Letters among commissioners provided prepublished results of
experiments and encouraged researchers to share even minor findings in ad-
vance.36 For example, Hubbard recalled to Hoffer that he received a “phone call
from the Stanford University group in California, and they have received a large
grant for research and are very interested in getting on with it as soon as possi-
ble.” In that same letter he also reported that Sidney Cohen, in Los Angeles, had
had somewhat negative results with his study involving alcoholics. Collaborat-
ing through the channels of the commission engendered a collegial atmosphere
for investigating LSD, which became more important as non-LSD investigators
grew increasingly suspicious about the work.37
In British Columbia, where Hubbard worked closely with Ross MacLean at
the private Hollywood Hospital, members of the psychology department, led by
Jim Tyhurst, at the University of British Columbia criticized the LSD studies as
misguided and unscientific. Members of the commission helped shield Hub-
bard from the mounting attacks, particularly those that focused on his lack of
scientific certification. Hubbard felt that Tyhurst’s concerns were motivated
more by jealousy and shortsightedness. He told Hoffer: “Tyhurst knows noth-
ing abut LSD; does not approve of any of the people involved in it, including all
of us, and was quite busy causing me trouble here and there.” By warning col-
leagues about such critics, the members of the commission hoped to guard
against attacks on their work.38
Efforts to consolidate a psychedelic program, however, exposed significant
differences in how various people prioritized the research objectives. Reminis-
cent of the responses to the peyote ceremony, members of the wider psychedelic
community expressed conflicting views on the importance of these drugs for
developing deeper philosophical, religious, scientific, or medical insights. As
the experiments continued, divisions emerged along scientific versus spiritual
lines. Hubbard summarized his feelings regarding this split: “My regard for
science, as an end within itself, is diminishing as time goes on . . . when the
thing I want with all of my being, is something that lives far outside and out of
reach of empirical manipulation.” Hubbard was not alone in feeling that the
psychedelic experience defied scientific explanation and that, in fact, the scien-
tific vocabulary was insufficient for describing the kinds of insights that one
might achieve.39
The religious and scientific dimensions of the experience fascinated mem-
bers of the commission, and several of them attempted to resolve what they re-
garded as an artificial distinction between the two sets of interpretations. Myron
Stolaroff, working out of Menlo Park, California, decided to explore the role of
faith in the psychedelic experience. Ultimately, he agreed with Hubbard that
science offered limited means for evaluating LSD. Nonetheless, he remained
interested in studying the results of giving LSD to scientific-minded individuals
to examine its effects on their ontological perspectives.40
Conversely, Hubbard gave LSD to a priest in an effort to gauge how the
psychedelic experience might affect someone predisposed to a religious point
of view. In this par tic u lar case, Hubbard reported that the priest hallucinated
and imagined an encounter with another priest. Hubbard recalled that the in-
dividual was “frightened out of his wits, and even more terrified when he real-
ized that he was facing a priest who could appreciate that his attitude towards
the church was a mere ritual and not belief or trust. . . . [He] had a completely
scientific mystical experience.” Although the commissioners did not elaborate
further on this relationship between the spiritual and the scientific discrepan-
cies, the matter increasingly characterized their communications and their
practices.41
Hoffer remained steadfastly committed to scientific investigations, espe-
cially biochemical ones but quietly supported the work of Hubbard and others
by providing them with supplies and encouragement. He was perhaps most in-
terested in the possibilities presented by the LSD studies that ignored estab-
lished scientific boundaries, particularly as these boundaries threatened to
undermine his own work. Yet he expressed a deep reluctance to reinvent him-
self in a nonmedical or nonscientific fashion. Hoffer was not prepared to fully
endorse a spiritual model for explaining the effects of LSD, which he felt dis-
solved any remaining medicoscientific credibility from the original studies.
Equally, he did not feel that he could turn his back on that dimension of the
psychedelic investigations being carried out by the commission.
By the end of the 1950s the scientific components of the LSD investigations
seemed to be weakening, and psychedelic studies morphed into a more expan-
sive term encompassing philosophical, spiritual, and scientific elements of drug
experimentation. The drug remained confined more or less to the clinical con-
text for matters of legal experimentation, but gradually with a widening network
of investigators and a reconceptualization of the drug as a spiritual enhancer,

medical researchers were forced to reevaluate their position in the debates over
the medical value of LSD.
In an expression of frustration with the current status of LSD within the
medical community, Hoffer quietly pleaded for a reassertion of scientific
methods into the study of psychedelics, if only for reasons of maintaining
professional integrity. “I am afraid that those of us who will explore the mys-
terious workings of the mind will be subject to much criticism and opposi-
tion,” he wrote. “This is why our work must be done so carefully and
obsessively.” In spite of his ac knowledg ment that the therapeutic application
of LSD extended beyond something that could be described in strictly bio-
chemical or medical language, Hoffer clung to his underlying belief that
medical entrepreneurs, particularly those invested in studies of the mind,
could bend to accept the possibilities offered by a therapy that had biochemi-
cal and psychological components. Even if subjects conveyed results in the
language of spirituality or creativity, LSD, to Hoffer, offered a real opportunity
for medical scientists to explore these findings as a legitimate, scientific
branch of medicine.42
The scientific or medical investigations and the philosophical or spiritual
ones overlapped considerably and incorporated perspectives across a wide gulf
of acceptable expertise. The blurring of scientific and spiritual objectives
meant that people such as Abram Hoffer, Frank Takes Gun, and Al Hubbard,
with disparate views and different agendas, found themselves working to-
ward common goals. While Hoffer approached psychedelics as a scientist,
his work lent legitimacy to the Native American Church’s struggle to retain
legal access to peyote for religious observances. His connections with Hub-
bard opened this other dimension of the psychedelic experience, namely spir-
ituality. Through Hubbard, Hoffer was introduced to a cluster of writers and
nonmedical participants with committed interests in exploring links between
psychedelics and creativity, spirituality, or both. While intrigued by these agen-
das, Hoffer worried that science could not accommodate such perspectives.
chapter five
Acid Panic
The popular author and television host Pierre Berton hosted Under Attack in
October 1967. The TV program featured Abram Hoffer, the Beatnik poet Allen
Ginsberg, and the LSD guru Timothy Leary in a debate over the future of LSD.1
Much to the network’s chagrin, the three guests concurred on several points,
making the program less a debate than a convivial discussion. According to a
newspaper article researchers assigned to the episode had assumed that Hoffer,
as a leading medical expert on psychedelics, opposed their use. The result was
that the television network appeared to be endorsing LSD use. A few weeks after
this program aired the network followed up with a one-hour special explicitly
describing the negative effects of LSD use.2
Reactions to the Pierre Berton program typified concerns that television cov-
erage, regardless of its stated intentions, titillated viewers and encouraged rec-
reational LSD use. In November 1966, one of Canada’s national newspapers,
the Globe and Mail, reported that Hollywood actress Pam Hyatt would take LSD
on the Canadian Television Network investigative journalism program W5. This
kind of televised exposure added to the growing publicity surrounding the drug
and reinforced government concerns that LSD had become a problem that was
spiraling out of control. Political opinion initially was divided on whether these
news programs accurately depicted the dangers of the drug (thereby acting as
deterrence) or whether this exposure piqued the curiosity of viewers (thus incit-
ing experimentation). After watching a television documentary about LSD on
the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s prime time program Seven Days, one
member of Parliament declared in the House of Commons that he “came to the
conclusion that [he] just didn’t have guts enough to try LSD.” Canada’s federal
opposition leader and former prime minister John Diefenbaker lambasted the
Canadian television networks, arguing that prime time programs on LSD reck-
lessly encouraged drug use. Publicity over LSD consumption catapulted medi-
cal experts into heated debates over drug regulation. Politicians, bureaucrats,
Pierre Berton, host of Under Attack, in October 1967. He appears with Abram Hoffer,
Allen Ginsberg, and Timothy Leary (clockwise from top left). Courtesy of Elsa Franklin.
police officers, social workers, and medical researchers engaged in a jurisdic-

tional tug-of-war over who should rightfully determine the harms and benefits
of LSD and whether its use could be controlled.3
In addition to television shows about medical and political perspectives on
LSD use, newspaper headlines touted rumors of rampant LSD use on university
Acid Panic 103
campuses. By the late 1960s LSD use seemed to be epidemic. And the publicity
surrounding this apparent outbreak of drug use gave rise to exaggerated stories
and spiraling curiosity.
The hysteria over LSD in the 1960s in many respects constituted a moral
panic, a cultural phenomenon often characterized by a shifting context of au-
thority. In the 1960s the moral panic centered on the idea that a new,
self- conscious, and numerous cohort of youth had banded together in pursuit of
social changes, though scholars continue to debate the origins and credibility of
this idea. For example, the sociologist Stanley Cohen described how during the
1960s in Britain a new kind of youth culture emerged as a result of the sus-
tained attention that this generation had received from its parents. The parents
of the post–World War II children had grown up between two world wars. Na-
tional and familial sacrifices deeply affected their collective experiences and
curtailed any indulgence that might have been offered by the relative innocence
of childhood and adolescence. By contrast, their children, who became the
youth of the 1960s, enjoyed an extended period of childhood and adolescence in
a postwar period of relative affluence and security. These numerically powerful
baby boomers also had access to more financial resources, which gave rise to an
identifiable youth culture with its own consumable products, fashions, and mu-
sic. Cohen maintained that this group of 1960s youth did not so much rebel
against their parents as embrace a collective identity that was the result of their
parents’ coddling. Because they grew up in dramatically different cultural con-
texts, the two generations invariably held different social and moral values.
Rather than celebrate the cultural by-products of a relatively affluent upbring-
ing, the two factions engaged in a conflict superficially divided along genera-
tional lines. Regardless of whether hyperbolic claims concerning the depth and
universality of this generational division were accurate, the perception of its ex-
istence was sufficient to frame debates over drug regulation in terms that capi-
talized on the political tensions inherent to this characterization of 1960s
culture. LSD, or a psychedelic ethic, was purportedly embroidered into the fash-
ion, music, art, and bohemian lifestyle that became synonymous with the quin-
tessential 1960s hippie.4
Beginning in the 1960s, LSD generated an image associated with revolution-
ary ideas and the emergent North American counterculture. Rumors of the
drug’s capacity to produce euphoric experiences engrossed drug users and en-
couraged a black market production of the drug. Recipes for homemade ver-
sions of “acid” became available through underground sources. The term acid,
short for d-lysergic acid diethylamide, appeared with greater regularity during
this period. Clinicians suspected that acid did not even resemble LSD chemi-
cally. Subterranean manufacturers distributed the colorless, odorless product
with minimal risk of detection. Acid seemed to appeal, in par ticular, to college
students bound together by ideals antithetical to those of their parents’ genera-
tion. The ill- defined, and often all- encompassing, youth counterculture co- opted
psychedelic drug use as part of its self- conscious attempt to define itself.5
In the mid-1960s, acid gained a reputation for infecting young minds and
for unleashing dangerous behaviors in otherwise benign people. This growing
popular image, conflating acid with LSD, had a direct and devastating influence
on contemporary psychedelic research and treatment. Researchers encountered
great difficulties recruiting subjects who had no prior experience or knowledge
of the drug. Conversely, people entered clinical trials with wild expectations of
attaining a psychedelic euphoria, which subsequently colored their descriptions
of the trial and confounded the research results. The media spotlight on recrea-
tional drug use also threw clinical drug experimentation into question, particu-
larly for investigators who engaged in auto- experimentation. Where earlier
critiques concentrated on the methodology employed for evaluating experi-
ences, media reports from the mid-1960s armed critics with alarming stories of
LSD abuse among disaffected youth. Criticism of psychedelic psychiatry in-
creasingly focused on its relationship with the new counterculture.
The moral panic generated by LSD use in the late 1960s also shifted the con-
text of medical authority over psychedelic drug use. These drugs became sym-
bols of cultural identity, according to both sides of the generational divide.6 The
apparent increase in drug abuse among North American youth intensified gen-
erational tensions. A crisis erupted in the mid-1960s and fed on rumors, sensa-
tional media reports, and a growing perception that the younger generation
wielded the capacity to overthrow conventional order. In a volatile political cli-
mate, psychedelic drug advocates, clinical or recreational, risked being identi-
fied as socially dangerous. Medical authorities promoting psychedelic psychiatry
were perceived as indirectly endorsing a cultural revolution.
LSD and Youth

After the Second World War, the birth rate in North America rose signifi-
cantly from interwar levels. The Canadian birth rate increased by nearly
100,000 from its prewar level of 300,000 births per year and continued grow-
ing annually from 1945 until peaking in 1959 with a 185 percent increase from
prewar levels.7 This population expansion created a significantly large cohort of
Acid Panic 105
people who reached adolescence in the period 1965 to 1975: the archetypal baby
boomers. Although scholars have debated whether this segment of the popula-
tion deserves recognition as a cohesive unit, the widespread concerns that arose
over drug use in the mid-1960s played upon fears associated with the image of
an entire generation getting high and engaging in morally reprehensible activi-
ties. 8 Regardless of whether this image depicted reality, the very notion galva-
nized society along generational lines. As a result, the 1960s youth bore the
brunt of concerns over the increased use of drugs in the postwar period.
Not all drug consumption precipitated a moral panic. Prescription rates for
drugs soared during the 1960s, building upon developments in psychopharma-
cology from the previous decade. Psychiatry embraced psychopharmacological
treatments and introduced a cornucopia of drugs into the mental health care
system; many of these drugs went through methodological clinical trials similar
to those for LSD. In 1965, for example, prescriptions for amphetamines in the
United States reached 24 million, while pharmacies filled 123 million prescrip-
tions for sedatives and tranquilizers in the same year. By 1965, 6.5 million
American women had prescriptions for the oral contraceptive, the pill. Middle-
class housewives, allegedly suffering from “a problem that had no name,” consti-
tuted a large group of drug users, making drugs such as Miltown (meprobamate)
and Valium into popular household items.9
These drugs also captured popular cultural attention. American talk show
host Milton Berle jokingly called himself “Miltown Berle.” The British rock
group the Rolling Stones sang about “suburban housewives who could not toler-
ate the mind-numbing tedium of kitchen and kids without resorting to ‘moth-
er’s little helpers’ [Miltown].” North Americans readily used chemical substances
during the postwar period, making the subsequent condemnation of young
people’s experiments with drugs somewhat inconsistent.10
But in the case of prescription drugs, an identifiable and established cohort of
society was the predominant consumer—patients with mental illnesses, middle-
class housewives, or women of child-bearing years. These groups, however, did
not raise the specter that their drug use (and indeed abuse in some cases) consti-
tuted a threat to the moral order. Similarly, the fact that men regularly engaged in
alcohol consumption did not arouse panic that the male-dominated rituals would
evoke a bond among men that would subsequently threaten to overthrow normal
society.11 Indeed, in the case of patients with mental illnesses and women, despite
campaigns aimed at politicizing their identity in society, either as consumer sur-
vivors or as feminists, their drug-taking activities had a minimal effect, if any, on
public perceptions of their group identity.12 In stark contrast, the under-thirty
generation assumed a threatening position in society and their drug-taking activi-

ties allegedly united them in a common desire to get high and change societal
values.
Despite the popular cultural images, government inquiries into the per-
ceived drug problem found that North Americans more commonly consumed
mild tranquilizers than LSD throughout the 1960s.13 In a U.S. survey con-
ducted in 1970 the Narcotic Addiction Control Commission measured drug
use, legal and illegal, in New York State by randomly sampling residents over
the age of fourteen. The survey showed that most people who admitted to con-
suming drugs obtained their supplies through prescriptions. In fact, 88 percent
of the people surveyed had at one time been on mild tranquilizers, while none
of them admitted taking LSD.14 Although it is not surprising that few people
would admit taking a drug that had been declared illegal in 1966, the survey
nonetheless revealed that a large percentage of New York residents accepted
drug-taking behaviors when regulated by the medical profession.
The psychedelic reaction, according to its proponents, distinguished LSD
from other clinical drugs, such as tranquilizers or sedatives, because of its abil-
ity to provide users with a powerful consciousness-raising experience. The
drug did not simply produce a chemical reaction with subjective responses; us-
ers claimed that LSD trips caused philosophical, epistemological, and ontologi-
cal changes in perspective. Clinical studies supported the claim that the
subjective experiences offered by psychedelic drugs such as LSD, mescaline,
and psilocybin (aka magic mushrooms) had important therapeutic benefits.
The treatment of alcoholism, for example, described the significance of the
psychedelic experience for medical interventions that did not fit neatly into a
biomedical paradigm and could not be evaluated with empirical observations
alone. With a reputation for producing exotic, euphoric, religious, and intro-
spective experiences, LSD began to appeal to users outside the clinical context
as a recreational drug.
Clinical researchers introduced students to LSD on university campuses
when soliciting volunteers for testing the effects of these substances on normal
subjects. At the University of Saskatchewan, as elsewhere in North America,
advertisements in student newspapers recruited volunteers for LSD experi-
ments. While Hoffer and others evaluated the students’ reactions in the context
of medical research, some of the students took advantage of the sanctioned re-
search setting and repeatedly volunteered to take part in the studies because
they enjoyed the experience. Equipped with an armload of their favorite records,
some student volunteers spent their Saturdays listening to jazz and enjoying
Acid Panic 107
the psychedelic experience in the safe surroundings of the clinical observation

room. Rumors of the pleasant and remunerative experiments produced more
and more volunteers, and before long people sought to re- create the psychedelic
experience outside the clinical context.15
Timothy Leary and the League for Spiritual Discovery

Although Hoffer expressly forbade consumption of LSD outside the medical
setting, or at least without the presence of a clinician, other experimenters did
not follow his lead. Harvard University psychologist Timothy Leary explicitly
endorsed the popularization of LSD. Leary first encountered psychedelics in
1960 in the form of psilocybin while vacationing in Mexico with his colleague
Richard Alpert.16 Leary’s mushroom trip immediately intrigued him with an
overwhelming sense of chemically inspired spirituality. Upon returning from
Mexico, he established his own psychedelic research program with psilocybin
obtained legally from the Sandoz Pharmaceutical Company.17 Leary’s experi-
ments with a range of psychedelic substances led him to conclude that these
drugs, and LSD in par ticular, triggered a kind of spiritual reaction in people
that matched religious experiences. In both organically and chemically stimu-
lated scenarios, Leary argued, the subjective experience resulted in a deeper
understanding of humanity and its place in the universe. According to Leary,
taking LSD strengthened an individual’s spirituality. If everyone took LSD, he
asserted, human relations would inevitably improve. He even applied this logic
to the cold war. During the Cuban missile crisis, he suggested that Soviet leader
Nikita Khrushchev and American president John F. Kennedy should take LSD
to bring them to the realization that no amount of weaponry could resolve the
political conflict of the cold war. Leary’s public posturing contributed to the be-
lief that LSD generated antiwar and utopian sentiments.18
By 1962, Leary’s flamboyant support for LSD consumption had landed him
in professional difficulties with Harvard University. The university demanded
that he immediately cease his psychedelic experimentation and dismissed Leary
when he failed to do so. Undaunted by the termination of his academic position,
Leary continued to promote the drug as a private citizen. He, along with Rich-
ard Alpert, who also lost his position at Harvard University, initiated a journal
devoted to psychedelic explorations. Leary and Alpert established a new religion
in 1967 called the League for Spiritual Discovery (not coincidentally with the
initials LSD), with Leary as its self-appointed guru. Between 1962 and 1969,
while crisscrossing the nation and occasionally landing in jail for marijuana
possession, Leary regularly proselytized crowds of young concertgoers, rally

participants, and demonstrators by explaining how LSD improved humanity.19
Leary’s behavior alarmed medical researchers who felt that his antics had
negative repercussions for their own LSD research. Abram Hoffer wrote to
Humphry Osmond in 1963 and complained about the attention garnered by
Leary. He feared that the “publicity from Leary and Alpert may lead to the re-
moval of LSD” from legal medical research funding. In a reply to Hoffer, Os-
mond complained about Leary continuing to masquerade as a psychologist,
giving undue weight to the concept that LSD provided a legitimate medicoscien-
tific avenue for exploring a new religion. Although Osmond conceded the im-
portance of spirituality in medicine, he feared that Leary’s pseudoscientific
authority reflected poorly on genuine scientific inquiries. Moreover, Leary’s
promotion of a new religion through use of psychedelic drugs undermined its
potential clinical use. Osmond carefully distanced himself from Leary’s promo-
tion of the drug. Osmond contended that Leary surpassed “legitimate scientific
interests to a bona fide religious interest which occupies most of his life . . .
insisting on the right to use psychedelic substances for psychologic[al] enquir-
ies without medical support.” Osmond believed that Leary’s grandstanding un-
dermined careful medical analyses by drawing media attention to LSD use
without therapeutic purpose.20
Two days after making these complaints to Hoffer, Osmond contacted Leary
directly and conveyed his apprehensions about establishing a psychedelic reli-
gion. He told Leary that “as a good member of my profession [I] strongly oppose
you.” In par ticular, he objected to Leary’s self-identification as a medical expert
on psychedelics, which he used to bolster support for the legitimacy of his
League for Spiritual Discovery. According to Osmond, Leary pretended to be
part of the psychology profession when it suited his purposes but refused to
engage in serious medical debates about the value of the drug in clinical prac-
tice. Osmond asserted that “medical hostility can be harmful to you and I think
you must face these objections rather than dissipate them with a smile, however
cosmic.” Osmond, quite rightly, feared that legitimate medical research would
become associated with Leary’s promotion of a new religion. Although Osmond
did not deny the importance of relating the LSD experience to spirituality he felt
that the League for Spiritual Discovery had little if any therapeutic benefits for
schizophrenic patients, who might benefit from professional psychedelic re-
search. He concluded his letter to Leary by recommending that he direct his
evangelicalism toward consenting adults rather than continuing to fuel the gen-
erational divide. Furthermore, he recommended that Leary stop masquerading
Acid Panic 109
as a clinical authority when he operated outside the checks and balances of the
profession.21
Hoffer and Osmond had good reason to worry about Leary’s activities. The
news media seized upon Leary’s public antics and contributed to a growing
perception that acid was intimately woven into the formation of a countercul-
ture and, furthermore, that medical researchers such as Leary endorsed its de-
velopment. Indeed, Leary’s frequent brushes with the law seemed to elevate his
status among the counterculture youth, making him an honorary member and,
to Osmond’s consternation, even an idolized figure. As Leary was repeatedly
jailed on drug charges, the connection between his promotion of LSD and his
criminal behavior forged a strong illustrative bond between the two activities.
Osmond maintained that Leary’s behavior also deepened the cultural divide
and gave politicians and newspaper editors alike ammunition for describing
Leary as a counterculture leader and psychedelic apostle. In a letter to col-
leagues, Osmond wrote that “Timothy Leary is also a corrupter of youth, friend
of the underworld, etc, but . . . is most unlikely to be harmed by wider issues
due to the changing state of our current morality.” While Leary used his profes-
sional identification with clinical psychology to legitimize his promotion of
LSD, he was unlikely to suffer the professional consequences of his actions. The
paradoxical image distorted the public perception of scientific authority on
psychedelics.22
The Black Market

Leary’s publicity corresponded with the emergence of a black market in LSD.
In 1963, newspapers in California reported on the existence of a homemade ver-
sion of LSD: “It is not widespread but it exists,” claimed Keith S. Ditman of the
University of California Medical Center in Los Angeles and a member of the
Commission for the Study of Creative Imagination. According to news reports,
the underground versions of psychedelic chemicals resulted from sloppy medi-
cal controls that provided university students with unprecedented access to the
drugs. Students also exchanged recipes for home production. According to in-
structions later published in The Anarchist’s Cookbook, LSD could be made at
home after obtaining morning glory seeds or baby Hawaiian wood rose seeds.
Given the accessibility of these instructions and the apparent ease of concoc-
tion, homemade versions of acid proliferated.23
Concerned about such activities, Osmond corresponded with other psyche-
delic researchers and the chief LSD distributor, Albert Hofmann of the Sandoz
Pharmaceutical Laboratories. Although they could not entirely rule out the pos-
sibility that Sandoz-produced LSD had leaked into the black market from medi-
cal laboratories, Osmond remained confident that this explanation of the problem
represented a misreading of the subterranean economy’s hold on psychedelics.
Albert Hofmann revealed to Osmond that approximately fifty other psychologi-
cally active substances closely resembled LSD, and he suspected that many of
these other substances were circulating in the black market as acid. Hofmann’s
assessment meant that clinicians investigating psychedelics were not to blame
for the growth of black market supplies. Osmond considered, therefore, that the
growing drug problem owed as much to unknown substances sold on the street
as psychedelics. In addition, people hospitalized because of bad trips often con-
sumed drug cocktails, a combination of chemical substances of suspicious ori-
gins. Osmond concluded that authorities required more medical research on
these illicit substances and the nature of the black market psychedelics before
proclaiming that LSD was dangerous.24
Osmond thought legislators increasingly and misguidedly exercised author-
ity over drug regulations without sufficient input from the medical community,
particularly those clinical researchers who had firsthand experience with the
drug. The problem, he contended, was not that medical experimenters freely
distributed psychedelics, but rather that legislative measures curtailed medical
research and incapacitated professionals from analyzing the real dangers of
black market substances. The public panic about acid made establishing re-
search laboratories for testing underground drugs politically unpalatable. None-
theless, Osmond pointed out that where data existed the results suggested that
street acid generally contained between a twenty-fifth and one-fiftieth pure
lysergic acid.25 These findings indicated that neither medical authorities nor
consumers really had any way of determining what combination of substances
constituted a hit of street acid. Osmond later recalled hearing about a West
Coast concoction of green liquid “LSD,” which reportedly caused vivid reactions
that lasted days and even weeks. He learned of the green acid because a medical
colleague sampled it in an effort to determine whether it was safe; after several
days the doctor committed suicide. Osmond had never encountered in his re-
search nor read about in medical literature any similar experience with
Sandoz-approved LSD. Suspecting that the green acid contained impurities that
might well have been responsible for the tragic reaction, he contacted the U.S.
Food and Drug Administration and recommended a thorough investigation of
the faux LSD.26
Acid Panic 111
Following a long conversation with a self-identified drug dealer, Osmond

concluded that the young man had a good understanding of the effects of LSD
as well as the dangers of synthetic versions. The relative ease of purchase for
users described by this young man struck Osmond as further evidence that
police authorities had a limited idea of the magnitude of the underground mar-
ket in drugs. After conversing with the drug dealer, Osmond remarked that the
young man “confirmed what I suspected that the government’s hope and belief
that they can somehow suppress the use of these substances, particularly by
younger people, seems to be based on some fundamental misunderstanding as
to the nature of the problem.” Osmond ended his report by mocking the govern-
ment and its plans to resolve the drug problem among college students suggest-
ing that an “elaborate spy system” and a new category of “special secret police”
would do little to infiltrate this subterranean world.27
Osmond retained his original conviction that authorities misdiagnosed the
problem of drugs on campuses. He was unsure whether the misconstrued assess-
ment of youth drug abuse existed as a ruse for exercising greater political control
on campuses, with corresponding consequences for medical experimentation.
News coverage about LSD in the 1950s and 1960s contained an implicit ideo-
logical message concerning the growing social and cultural upheaval of the era.
Sensational reports repeatedly connected LSD use with morally deviant and po-
litically dissident behaviors. Newspapers relied on psychiatric experts for cor-
roboration of the medical dangers related to LSD abuse. Medical critics of the
psychedelic theories readily offered public statements about LSD’s dangers,
which played upon the growing fears touted by a conservative establishment.
Unfounded beliefs of an LSD epidemic satisfied two distinct ideological objec-
tives. Politically, fears that the sixties generation was endangering society by en-
gaging in a risky drug-dependent lifestyle justified the need for state intervention
on campuses and elsewhere. The actual rates of consumption no longer mat-
tered; the confluence of social activism and drug abuse necessitated strict polic-
ing measures. Second, medical researchers identified methodological divisions
between psychedelic and psychopharmacological treatments along ideological
lines; the political stakes were equally high within this professional milieu.
Medical support for the criminalization of LSD tipped the scales in favor of a
par ticular kind of approach to psychiatric experimentation, one that did not in-
clude a new philosophy or spirituality packaged in a pill. The media amplified
the ideological assault on LSD, which ensured that the drug’s dangers and the
irresponsibility of some members of the scientific community were overstated.
Timothy Leary’s behavior undoubtedly boosted LSD’s public profile. The

number of newspaper articles on the drug rose from one or two a year to half a
dozen between 1951 and 1962. For example, when the New York Times inaugu-
rated its coverage of LSD in May 1951 it began with a relatively benign article on
chemical research involving lysergic acid and its role in advancing a better un-
derstanding of mental illness. The newspaper’s next reference to LSD, in May
1954, was buried in an account of lectures from the American Psychiatric As-
sociation. The article described the work of psychiatrist Max Rinkel, his experi-
ments with LSD, and the drug’s relationship to mental illness. In October 1954
another article supported the continued use of LSD in medical research.28 Over
the next eight years, LSD appeared in another seven articles, all of which re-
ported on its contributions to medical research.29
In 1962, the number of reports on LSD in the New York Times climbed to six.
In addition to the increased attention, the tone of reportage also changed. Three
of the six articles centered on the publication of a book titled My Self and I, a
monograph written by Constance Newland describing the case history of a pa-
tient treated with LSD. The remaining articles contained alarming headlines:
“Doctors Reported a Black Market in Drug That Causes Delusions,” “Drug Used
Cover of the Toronto Star, April 29, 1961. In the early 1960s the tone of newspaper
reports on LSD began to change as sensational and alarming headlines replaced more
measured reporting. Courtesy of Toronto Star Archives.
Acid Panic 113
in Mental Ills Is Withdrawn in Canada,” and “Harvard Men Told of Mind-Drug

Peril.” Leary’s subsequent dismissal from Harvard University and the related
concerns over the rise of an underground drug economy kept the press’s atten-
tion focused on LSD for the next two years.30
In Canada, LSD attracted less media attention. Before Leary was dismissed
from Harvard, reports about the drug rarely made the news.31 When LSD was
mentioned, national newspapers such as the Globe and Mail continued to dis-
cuss it in relation to medical experimentation. The majority of these articles
maintained the importance of sustained clinical investigations with LSD and
its carefully controlled use in a medical setting.32 But throughout the 1960s
Canadian newspapers increasingly monitored the drug scene in the United
States.
By 1965, the excitement in the United States surrounding Leary had dissi-
pated and headlines in the New York Times once again reflected a more positive
role for LSD in medical experimentation. The shift in tone seemed to coincide
with new legislative measures that criminalized the nonmedical use of the
drug. Rather than fearful headlines about the growing black market in danger-
ous drugs, the news suggested that state control and medical authority had reas-
serted themselves over the threat of nonmedical LSD and its distribution
through underground circuits. Stories also reminded readers of the benefits of
LSD experimentation conducted by professionals in a medical setting. The New
York Times mentioned the experiments in Saskatchewan as good, safe examples
of LSD use in medical experimentation. One article examined Kyoshi Izumi’s
daring experimentation with LSD-inspired hospital designs and described the
results in favorable terms.33 Rumors of Hoffer and Osmond’s psychedelic treat-
ments for alcoholism also made it into back pages, with encouraging commen-
tary. Attention also turned to Harvard University, which, undeterred by the
episode with Leary, in 1965 reported that the “mind drugs” had positive benefits
for medical research.34 This period of relatively positive reporting offered psych-
edelic researchers some respite from the negative publicity directed at their
laboratories at the height of the Leary controversy at Harvard. This brief re-
prieve left psychedelic researchers completely unprepared for the fomentation
of negative attention that occurred in the following year.
An explosion of media sensationalism regarding the public image of LSD
took place in 1966. The number of reports in the New York Times jumped from
five in 1965 to more than five hundred in 1966. The Globe and Mail experienced
a comparatively lower rate of increase, but the editors altered the tone of the ar-
ticles dramatically.35 The content of articles in the Canadian press shifted from
the earlier focus on LSD in medical research to a growing sense of alarm over
recreational LSD use, particularly in the United States. American and Canadian
authorities began considering legislative action with regard to LSD, and news
coverage shifted accordingly.
In 1966, stories about LSD moved to the front pages, and striking headlines
presented the frightening consequences of abusing this drug. Whereas earlier
articles tended to differentiate between medical and black market versions of
the drug, accounts began blurring that distinction and eventually erased it alto-
gether: LSD was dangerous. Purported evidence of its dangers ranged from de-
scriptions of subjects who experienced extended psychotic states, to those who
committed murder and suicide, to others who engaged in risky behavior, in-
cluding promiscuous sex, vandalism, theft, and experimentation with harder
drugs, such as heroin and cocaine.36 Reports also claimed that using LSD en-
couraged political dissent and inhibited an interest in economics, politics, and
the law.37 Such sensational reports reinforced the idea that LSD was responsible
for a whole range of activities that threatened the social order. These kinds of
headlines eroded the image of medical and political control over LSD consump-
tion and instead highlighted chaotic consequences of a noncompliant genera-
tion of drug abusers.
In 1970, William Braden, a reporter for the Chicago Sun-Times, offered an
insider’s reflection on the way the press handled reports about LSD. He recalled
that LSD presented news editors with a number of challenges. During the early
stages of the drug’s history, stories about LSD fell naturally to the science or
medicine reporters. As the drug and its users changed, determining how the
story should be covered—and by whom—became more difficult. A story might
reasonably fall under the rubric of science, medicine, religion, crime, or even
travel. But publication in any one of these categories unintentionally simplified
the complicated story of LSD and distorted the information offered to the
public.38
Braden contended that Leary’s conduct often placed LSD on the front page,
which accounted for the drug’s transfer from the science and medicine pages to
the police reports and editorial columns. But the major turning point for LSD
coverage came in April 1966 when shocking reports appeared in the New York
Times and were picked up by virtually every other U.S. paper. The first article
proclaimed: “Police Fear Child Swallowed LSD.” According to this article, a
five-year- old girl ingested a sugar cube laced with LSD that her uncle had pur-
chased for his own use. A neighbor noticed the child behaving “wildly” and
called the hospital; the uncle was subsequently arrested. Five days later the
Acid Panic 115
front page trumpeted: “A Slaying Suspect Tells of LSD Spree: Medical Student
Charged in Mother-in-Law’s Death.” In this case, a thirty-year- old medical
school dropout told police “he had been ‘flying’ for three days on LSD” when he
killed his mother-in-law, though he had no recollection of the murder. These
two shocking events set the tone for press coverage on LSD for the next two
years.39
As Braden pointed out, these two stories were the standard for subsequent
articles. The drug had found its way onto the front page and there was no longer
any discussion of whether the science reporter or the medicine journalist would
cover the story. Sensational stories about LSD helped sell newspapers. For the
next two years provocative headlines reinforced fearful notions of LSD’s physi-
cal and social threat: “Parents Fear Spread of LSD in Schools”; “LSD Most Dan-
gerous”; “LSD-User Charged with Killing Teacher”; “LSD, Fascinating to
Collegians, Alarms U.S. Parents, Police”; “Sampled LSD, Youth Plunges from
Viaduct”; “LSD Use near Epidemic in California”; “Taking a Trip to Deathville”;
and “Six Students Blinded on LSD Trip in Sun.” These kinds of alarmist head-
lines explicitly connected LSD abuse with fatal consequences and reinforced the
divisions between traditional authority figures (police, parents, doctors) and
dissident youth.40
From 1966 to about 1968, stories covering the dangers of LSD and its in-
creased use in underground (and therefore unregulated) drug markets prolifer-
ated in the print media. University students were depicted as the primary
culprits, which exacerbated fears that the situation would continue as these very
same youth assumed authoritative positions in society. LSD became a symbol of
an emergent youth counterculture, a hotly contested term that encapsulated a
desire for wholesale changes in society.41 The news media no longer referred to
psychedelic drugs as clinical research tools, not even in the back pages. The
drug was described as a catalyst for a cultural revolution whereby a drug- crazed
generation of North American youth would steer the world into a future of
chaos and immorality.
Osmond, then working in New Jersey, wrote to a colleague in 1965 and com-
mented on the explosion of publicity, and subsequent public fears, generated
over the use of psychedelics. He considered the issue a combination of four inter-
related factors. The first was psychedelics—LSD’s capacity to deliver a euphoric
experience.42 Second, and put simply, youth.43 Osmond cited the rapidly chang-
ing society as the third component, one that gave rise to general anxieties about
the transience of social values. Finally, he included “a variety of political colora-
tions,” which he defined as a “hell broth” of old and new ideologies including
“anarchism, nihilism, libertarianism, etc.” Osmond reflected upon historical

events, such as prohibition, that arose out of similar circumstances where public
panic erupted during a rather tumultuous period and targeted a par ticular activ-
ity for causing social friction. In the case of prohibition, suppression of alcohol
led to its proliferation in an underground economy. The result was unsatisfying
for authorities as well as for social drinkers and alcohol producers. He asserted,
therefore, “unsuccessful attempts to suppress psychedelics will spread rather
than inhibit their use—there are far too many young chemistry majors and
PhDs about.” Osmond recommended further medical examinations and honest
reporting of results. In general, he felt that undue panic led to reactionary mea-
sures that amplified the real dangers of LSD use. Here again, Osmond identified
the erosion of medical expertise in the management of the LSD crisis; he felt that
this oversight would exacerbate the problem.44 Apparently for Osmond, reestab-
lishing medical authority over drug regulations was not enough; he also de-
manded that the right kind of medical expert be consulted.
Hoffer adopted a slightly more aggressive position, defending psychedelics
amid the moral panic. He attended a psychedelic festival in Toronto, hosted by
University of Toronto students in the fall of 1967. In an interview for the stu-
dent newspaper Hoffer stated that LSD was as safe as aspirin. The article re-
counted: “ ‘The headlines,’ Dr. Hoffer told a panel, ‘scream when a child takes a
sugar cube coated with LSD by mistake. Yet the child who is killed by an over-
dose of aspirin rates only a back-page story.’ ” Hoffer deplored the way that the
press treated LSD, and by association its medical advocates, while ignoring its
clinical history and the medical context from which it emerged. The students,
knowing that Hoffer was a leading expert on psychedelics, took his advice and
established a safe environment for their festival. Bob Rae, a student leader, told
the University of Toronto newspaper, the Varsity, “We want to set up an experi-
ment in [a] controlled environment, perhaps consisting of a series of rooms,
each concentrating on a different theme [for LSD experimentation].” Hoffer ap-
plauded the organizers’ diligence and responsibility.45
One of Hoffer’s sympathetic colleagues wrote to him in September 1967
complaining about the unbalanced press coverage. He deplored the intimate
relationship forming between their professional critics and tabloid-style jour-
nalists. He wrote to Hoffer: “It also hurts the cause of truth when some of those
authorities, who have the national spotlight, tend to simply beat the hysterical
drum in time with the irresponsible journalists. Not all journalists are irre-
sponsible and look only for the fast buck but I wish the responsible ones would
call their errant brothers to task. We seem to have the same problem in our
Acid Panic 117
ranks.”46 The politicization of LSD in the public media gave medical critics of
psychedelics more leverage within professional debates, and their influence
strengthened as they enlisted the support of a growing mass of concerned par-
ents and politicians. Hoffer complained about the situation, which he felt dis-
played a “deliberate attempt on the part of some news media to create hysteria
in Canada, aided and abetted by irresponsible statements released by physicians
who have never really studied LSD.”47
Crumbling Medical Authority

Unfortunately for psychedelic psychiatrists, neither political nor medical
authorities heeded their advice and social concern over psychedelic drug use
continued unabated. The result had devastating consequences for medical ex-
perts such as Osmond whose careers were linked to LSD experimentation. Un-
til the explosion of press coverage on the dangers of LSD, Osmond was a leading
medical authority on psychedelics. By 1966 his status in the medical commu-
nity changed dramatically, as the ideological divisions on LSD use crystallized.
Medical reports on the use of psychedelic treatments maintained that LSD of-
fered an effective therapy for a range of disorders, alcoholism being the princi-
pal disease that responded well to the experience- driven approach. Negative
publicity surrounding acid infected psychedelic trials in a number of ways that
diminished the professional enthusiasm for employing model psychoses to
study mental illness.
On the one hand, media exploitation of the alleged proliferation of acid en-
couraged new legislation that made psychedelic drugs illegal. Although in some
cases medical researchers continued trials with special government permis-
sion, their ability to attract volunteers, given the negative reputation of the drug,
led some researchers to abandon their investigations altogether. On the other
hand, growing concerns over the inherent dangers of hallucinogens presented
opportunities for opponents to further discredit psychedelic approaches. The
media had a decisive influence on the politicization of psychedelic psychiatry,
suggesting that its elimination from the advancing psychopharmacological par-
adigm resulted, in part, from the cultural circumstances.
The responses to LSD use in the 1960s had all the essential ingredients of a
moral panic. The increasingly politicized youth became the orchestrators of im-
morality and set the stage for a panic that pitted youth against adults. The drug
scare took flight during a heightened period of general anxieties about the shift-
ing political and cultural values in postwar North American society, making
the panic both invisible and pervasive. LSD use in the 1960s brought about a
clash of interests—commercial, political, and medical—and a jockeying for
moral authority in the postwar context. Medical experts with intimate knowl-
edge about LSD’s effects found themselves on the wrong side of the political
trend.
The discordant cultural and medical views of a drug underscored the impor-
tance of the media in touting risks associated with drugs. Media-generated la-
bels of dangerousness had enduring consequences for public and medical
perceptions of the drug and its users.48 Clinical psychedelic authorities were also
consumers of the drug. At the height of the debates in the late 1960s, psychia-
trists had to choose between professional and political allegiances. Psychedelic
experts bore the additional political burden of implicitly endorsing a genera-
tional uprising through continued support for LSD and other mind-altering
drugs. Within this context professional authority regarding who might be capa-
ble of controlling LSD consumption shifted. By the end of the decade psychedelic
psychiatry no longer seemed grounded in valid medical principles, and psyche-
delic therapists did not appear qualified to help manage acid abuse.
chapter six
“The Perfect Contraband”
In December 1961, newspaper headlines in Europe and North America

alarmed readers with the frightening news that the popular over-the- counter
medication thalidomide caused severe birth defects. The news rattled consum-
ers and raised suspicions about the reliability of so- called wonder drugs. It also
cast doubts on the ability of medical experts to determine long-range effects or
diversity of reactions to pharmaceutical medications, even those that performed
well in controlled trials. The West German government was the first to with-
draw thalidomide from the marketplace. Chemie Grünenthal in West Germany,
Richardson-Merrell in the United States, and Frank W. Horner Limited in
Canada had marketed thalidomide as a “remarkably safe” over-the- counter
sleeping pill. The active ingredient in the drug also appeared in several other
nonprescription medicines for colds, flu, headaches, neuralgia, and asthma.1 By
the time the drug was withdrawn, more than ten thousand children had been
born with severe deformities, generally involving missing long bones in the
shoulders, hands, legs, and feet, giving the appearance of limbs growing di-
rectly from the torso.2 Concerns over liability ricocheted through the medical
and legal communities.
The thalidomide issue served as a lightning rod for medical and political
decisions regarding the safety and availability of drugs. In Canada, the decision
to place thalidomide on the narcotics schedule gave politicians occasion to con-
sider adding other drugs to this list; LSD was mentioned as a possible candi-
date.3 In the House of Commons and the Senate members hotly debated
whether LSD should join thalidomide on a list of restricted drugs. A motion to
classify LSD with thalidomide passed in both the House of Commons and the
Senate, but the bill was withdrawn under protest from the Canadian Psychiatric
Association and the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons.4
The objections from the medical community centered on the apparent effi-
cacy of lysergic acid treatments for alcoholism and the growing clinical insights
gleaned from research into model psychoses: two major areas of research by the
Saskatchewan group. Despite professional differences on the potential clinical
applications of the drug, the medical community united in resisting interfer-
ence from politicians and the unwelcome precedent of banning potentially
therapeutic drugs. Medical practitioners initially rallied together to defend their
professional prerogative to determine the ultimate therapeutic value of pharma-
cological substances. The Canadian government responded with a compromise:
it banned the public sale of the drug and issued a new regulation permitting the
continuation of medical experimentation only with explicit approval from the
federal minister of health. Psychedelic authorities in Saskatchewan were wary
of the increased political control this bill granted the minister of health, but
welcomed the opportunity to continue research.5
The window of opportunity to investigate LSD, however, was slowly closing.
Over several years, LSD shifted from a legal substance with medical potential to
an illicit substance with criminal overtones. The change in legal status also in-
volved a transfer of authority in evaluating the safety of pharmaceuticals from
the exclusive domain of the medical community to one increasingly involving
the state. But even before the legislative amendments came into effect, clinical
experimentation with LSD encountered new obstacles. Several laboratories dis-
continued LSD experiments in the mid-1960s due to the difficulties they expe-
rienced obtaining grants, recruiting staff, and maintaining professional respect.
Clinicians who had staked their careers on LSD research suffered severe conse-
quences. In addition to losing research facilities, they had gradually become
marginalized members of the psychiatric community. Psychedelic psychiatry,
and its advocates, moved to the fringes of experimental medicine and became
associated with unorthodox therapies. Although some clinical researchers tried
to continue publishing accounts detailing the benefits of exploring psychedelic
therapies, their stories were generally lost in the back pages of newspapers amid
a barrage of contrary headlines. While LSD researchers had faced strong meth-
odological opposition from their medical colleagues in the 1950s, the cultural
uproar over LSD in the 1960s delivered a decisive blow against the continuation
of psychedelic drugs in medical trials and clinical practice.6
LSD’s path from medical marvel to modern menace is far from unique. Drugs
such as opium share a similar past, from acceptance in medicine to cultural rein-
carnation as an illicit drug. Medicolegal debates about drug policies frequently
operate in tandem with cultural perceptions of users. Several studies of psychoac-
tive substances, including cocaine, tobacco, and methadone, explicitly link drug
use with criminal behavior by focusing on perceptions of drug users.7
“The Perfect Contraband” 121
By the end of the decade a number of initiatives from within the medical sci-
ences influenced how medical experimentation could proceed. In terms of
pharmacological experimentation, particularly after the effects of thalidomide
became known, drugs could no longer be tested indiscriminately. They had to
be interrogated under specific criteria that linked a par ticular drug with a dis-
tinctive disorder. LSD, which had already been criticized for its inability to per-
form under controlled-trial circumstances, encountered another obstacle under
this new ethic. A drug used by experimenters to produce a deeper understand-
ing of themselves, or of their patients, did not satisfy the requirements of this
FDA regulation. Bureaucratic concerns took precedence over medical research.
The goal of minimizing risk was achieved through a restructuring of the rela-
tionship between medicine, politics, and the general public.8
Other drugs that first appeared in the context of a medical-industrial com-
plex became entangled in a commercial venture that assessed their potential
harm in a different way. Thalidomide is a striking example of a commercially
available drug that represented a tragic failure in modern pharmacology. Public
outrage was directed against the medical profession, the licensing agencies, and
the pharmaceutical industry for promoting a drug that turned out to be unsafe.9
The highly lucrative commercial benefits of pharmacological promotion sur-
faced as a looming menace caused by Western society’s overindulgence in drug
remedies in general, but social reactions often focused on stereotypical users
rather than on the real medical harms.10 The contemporary acceptance of
pill-popping solutions cultivated a dangerous and powerful liaison between the
pharmaceutical industry and advertising agencies. Commercial interests that
masqueraded as legitimate actors within the medical community mediated
popular conceptions of health, risk, and danger. These kinds of connections
increased as more and more North Americans accepted drugs as symbols of
modernity, and regulatory decisions relied on a new cult of expertise where au-
thority derived from method and not experience.
Medical Response
The second half of the 1960s marked an important turning point in the
clinical history of psychedelics. By 1966, over two thousand articles concerning
psychedelic drugs had appeared in the medical literature. Acid trips among
counterculture youth demonstrated a flirtation with revolutionary ideas, and
medical experimentation with LSD toyed with new chemically inspired medical
philosophies. The psychedelic experience promised consciousness-raising
introspection and the ability to cultivate a new philosophical perspective that

could not be empirically measured by standard medical instruments. The U.S.
clinical psychologist Robert Mogar surmised that “the ‘Psychedelic Ethic’
promise[d], namely, passion and meaning in a cold, objective world. It would be
indeed ironic if the agent of scientific-man’s salvation should appear in the form
of synthetic drugs—a secular version of the cosmic joke.” In a pill-popping
postwar culture, LSD promised to bring new perspectives into medicine within
the advancing psychopharmacological paradigm. But the recreational use of
psychedelic drugs and the thalidomide tragedy seemed to suggest that the
medical community did not have sufficient knowledge of, or control over, its
drugs. By the end of the 1960s, the credibility of doctors using LSD in their
clinical practices was severely compromised. Professional concerns were bol-
stered by the public’s strong moral opposition to all things psychedelic.11
While newspaper reports seized upon the dangers associated with taking
LSD for kicks, articles in medical journals continued publishing the results of
LSD trials without editorializing. Although a clinical consensus on the value
and efficacy of drugs such as LSD, mescaline, and psilocybin had not emerged
by 1966, the drugs’ dangers were not addressed in the medical literature. Most
articles until mid- decade continued to explore the potential therapeutic applica-
tions of the drug.
In California, a member of the Commission for the Study of Creative Im-
agination instituted a comprehensive review of the effects of LSD. Sidney Co-
hen worked as a psychiatrist at the Wadsworth Veterans Administration
Hospital in Los Angeles and as an adjunct professor of medicine at the UCLA
School of Medicine and kept in touch with the Canadian psychedelic research-
ers through Hubbard. Cohen, who had a strong background in psychophar-
macology, introduced many medical and graduate students to the field with
his “infectious enthusiasm for research.” After taking LSD himself in 1955,
Cohen joined the ranks of psychedelic drug researchers and began conduct-
ing his own LSD experiments in the Bay Area. Unlike Hoffer and Osmond,
however, Cohen grew increasingly concerned by the feeling of emptiness,
loneliness, and sometimes despair reported to him by his LSD subjects. The
contemporary medical literature on LSD did not offer any explanations for
this response, and the absence of articles on the topic prompted Cohen to pre-
pare his own.12
In 1960, Cohen conducted a comprehensive survey of medical literature
on LSD and distributed a questionnaire to his fellow researchers experiment-
ing with psychedelics; he published the results in the Journal of Ner vous and
Mental Disease. His analysis was drawn from a collection of responses from
forty-four researchers, who reported their results with more than five thou-
sand individuals and over twenty-five thousand experiences (volunteers and
patients) with either mescaline or LSD. Cohen concluded that no harmful
physical side effects from LSD had been reported in the literature or in re-
spondent questionnaires. Larger doses, it seemed, produced more variable
results, including intense paranoid thinking and acting out. Adverse reac-
tions also occurred when investigators refused to interact with the subject or
when the subject engaged in self- experimentation alone. Cohen’s study iden-
tified the occurrence of negative reactions under certain circumstances but
overall indicated that the drug was relatively safe, even though these conclu-
sions did not match his initial suspicions.13
In 1966, media coverage frequently fixated on suicides and homicides re-
lated to LSD use; Cohen’s analysis found only one case of a successful suicide.
In fact, he claimed that “in only a very few instances [could] a direct connection
between the LSD experience and the movement toward self- destruction . . . be
discerned.” He added that only previously diagnosed “disturbed patients” regis-
tered in this category. No normal subject ever reacted with suicidal behavior;
and the rate of incidence for attempted suicide among patients who consumed
LSD was 1.2/1000. Comparatively, he found that this rate ranked moderately
lower than the rate of attempted suicide for patients consuming chlorpro-
mazine, by then the antipsychotic wonder drug of psychiatry. Yet, chlorpro-
mazine did not invite public scrutiny in an analogous manner. He maintained
that a direct connection between LSD consumption and subsequent suicide at-
tempts by depressed patients could not be established with any degree of
certainty.14
Cohen also discussed the problem of determining the probable causation of
prolonged or recurring effects attributed to the drug. He argued that the power-
ful reactions produced by psychedelics often made a lasting impression on the
individual subject. The individual might revisit the experience in his or her
memories and continue remembering the details of the reaction. For some, an
obsessive recurring thought pattern developed (a condition that would later be
known as a flashback). Cohen commented that “the highly suggestible or hys-
terical individual would tend to focus on his LSD experience to explain subse-
quent illness. Patients have complained to [Harold] Abramson that their LSD
exposure produced migraine headaches and attacks of influenza up to a year
later. One Chinese girl became paraplegic and ascribed this catastrophe to LSD.
It so happened that these people were all in the control group and had received
nothing but tap water.” The desire to link cause and effect appeared so strongly
that LSD surfaced as the culprit in a number of cases where subjects had never
actually been exposed to the drug.15
Cohen’s study, published before the thalidomide crisis, served as a compre-
hensive catalogue of LSD reactions for psychedelic researchers and helped clini-
cians negotiate real from perceived reactions to LSD. Some of Cohen’s colleagues
read his reports as proof that the drug held tremendous research promise. Con-
temporary clinicians such as Hoffer and Osmond interpreted Cohen’s study as
an endorsement of the relative safety of the drug.16
Two years after Cohen’s initial publication, he prepared an addendum to the
original study in light of the rise of black market acid. While the second study
repeated many of the previous findings, the tone of the report now reflected
some concerns about misuse: “The use of LSD-25 can be attended with serious
complications. This is especially true now that a black market in the drug ex-
ists. The dangers of suicide, prolonged psychotic reactions, and anti-social act-
ing out behavior exist. Misuse of the drug alone or in combination with other
agents has been encountered. Properly used, LSD-25 remains an important in-
vestigational instrument which might assist in the elucidation of significant
problems in the study of the mind.”17
In spite of Cohen’s publication, medical research with psychedelics contin-
ued, and many clinicians still maintained that the drug produced no ill effects.
While medical trials investigated the efficacy of the drug in clinical practice,
critics of LSD in psychiatry continued to concentrate on the difficulties in evalu-
ating the drug in controlled trials. By 1966, several accounts in medical jour-
nals explored the possible side effects and abuses of LSD.18 And by the end of
the decade, few positive accounts appeared in the medical journals, revealing a
waning enthusiasm for LSD investigations.19
The connection between LSD and danger emerged in the medical literature
after it appeared in the popular press. In 1967, 1968, and 1970, respectively, the
Globe and Mail published headlines claiming medical evidence concerning the
dangers of LSD: “Doctor Sees Evidence LSD Harms Offspring”; “Neurologist
Calls LSD Dangerous”; and, “LSD Study Shows it May Be Mutagen.”20 Though
testimony from medical experts appeared in each of these articles, only the first
headline linked LSD with a published medical report.21 That headline explicitly
blamed LSD for the kind of danger associated with thalidomide, but articles in
the medical literature did not readily support this claim. Nonetheless, the
media-generated image of LSD had a significant influence on clinical trials
with psychedelics.
The increased publicity surrounding LSD reinforced its image as a danger-

ous drug for recreational experimentation, and this popular perception affected
its reputation in clinical trials. As the drug attracted more attention, clinical
researchers found it increasingly difficult to recruit volunteers prepared to offer
an unprejudiced description of their response to LSD. Volunteers seemed to
have preconceived ideas about the drug that prejudiced their interpretations of
the psychedelic experience. Subjects volunteered for an LSD experiment ex-
pecting a mind- expanding experience. Patients slated for LSD therapy now ex-
hibited higher levels of anxiety when undergoing treatment. Increased publicity
shaped popular perceptions of the drug, with significant consequences for clin-
ical research that remained dependent on a large inventory of experiences to
satisfy the contemporary standards for evaluating psychoactive substances.
By the end of 1966, several medical researchers began to doubt their ability
to continue studying LSD amid the media attention. A research team in New
York sent out questionnaires to clinicians involved in psychedelic drug trials in
an effort to assess the effect they felt the media was having on their work. The
New York team had experienced difficulties attracting volunteers after the out-
break of sensationalist stories in the spring of that year. Correspondence with
their colleagues throughout North America revealed comparable difficulties.
They found marked differences in the kinds of people now volunteering for
LSD trials. The most frequently reported change in recruitment referred to the
suspicion that the popular reputation of LSD seemed to attract volunteers seek-
ing “the promise of nirvana.” In some cases this promise flooded trials with an
abundance of volunteers hoping to find spirituality, utopia, or philosophical in-
sights. With such expectations, the subjects’ reports often concentrated on a
comparison of their assumptions about the drug’s effects with the reality of the
experience. Results from these trials offered limited clinical insight.22
Patients also exhibited a change of attitude toward psychedelic therapies.
People often expressed heightened fears that sometimes led to panic attacks
before the trial. The number of individuals seeking reassurance about the
drug’s safety and a detailed explanation of the probable effects also increased.
One respondent explained that the recent publicity “increased favourable atti-
tudes among the previous sceptics or fence sitters, but with those negative or
uninterested to begin with the publicity has served to reinforce their fears con-
cerning adverse effects.”23
Several clinicians complained that they had discontinued their work with
LSD by early 1967, either because of difficulty obtaining supplies, pressure
from the government, low morale among staff, or concerns that colleagues
regarded the research as “shady.” Each of the programs reviewed in the New
York investigation had worked with the drug for at least a year before the in-
creased media attention, and all who responded identified the noticeable influ-
ence of the adverse media. Despite the negative publicity, however, respondents
generally felt that the situation had not damaged the bond of trust between pa-
tient and doctor.24
In 1968, Robert Mogar published a critique of the psychedelic craze and ex-
plained his reasons for withdrawing from further clinical trials with the re-
search program at Menlo Park, California. He identified himself as an “average”
researcher, who, despite the absence of negative results, had decided to termi-
nate his clinical explorations. He described his difficulty in trying to obtain
quality supplies, his frustration with repeated rejections for federal grants, and
his concern with negative feedback he received for making public statements on
psychedelics. All these factors taken together discouraged Mogar from pursu-
ing psychedelic research. Reflecting on the relationship between publicity and
psychedelic research he commented: “Since no one lives in a cultural or scien-
tific vacuum, literally all the work and commentary to date have been strongly
influenced by the sensationalism and controversy generated by psychedelic
drugs. Although operative to some degree in all scientific endeavors, cultural
and personal biases toward psychedelic phenomena have grown to absurd
heights, obscuring almost totally the substantive empirical issues. Studies that
are bold and imaginative as well as systematic and reasonably objective are not
likely to be conducted in the foreseeable future. Attempts to research or discuss
psychedelic states in a spirit of open inquiry quickly deteriorate into ‘which side
are you on.’ ” Consistent with the New York study, Mogar discovered that the
increased publicity significantly affected attitudes about LSD in clinical trials
for both subjects and investigators. These attitudes forced clinicians such as
Mogar to either support the medical profession’s prerogative to engage in psy-
chiatric research or the state’s responsibility to make decisions regarding the
efficacy of certain experiments based on political concerns.25
Between 1966 and 1968, medical researchers engaged in psychedelic inves-
tigation increasingly lost professional authority and credibility with respect to
their studies. Pronouncements about LSD from nonmedical sources multiplied
and profoundly altered the context of debate over the value of the drug. Hum-
phry Osmond, who remained one of the world’s leading figures in psychedelic
research, continued to speak out about the importance of clinical studies on
psychedelics, but his pleas for increased tolerance went unheeded. Nonetheless,
Osmond maintained confidence that reason would ultimately prevail and psych-
edelic psychiatry would not be jeopardized. As his psychedelic colleagues began

dismantling their research programs, Osmond encouraged people like Hoffer
to strengthen his resolve and endure the political storm. He believed that the
panic over LSD merely reflected cultural anxieties over contemporary sociopo-
litical changes. Once the revolutionary spirit dissipated, reasoned scientific in-
quiry would resurrect psychedelic psychiatry because it offered “real” insights
into mental illness.26
Personal correspondence between Hoffer and Osmond described the subse-
quent decline of LSD in medical research and, with it, their own professional
relocation to the margins of clinical relevance. They tried to convince political
authorities of the importance of maintaining a balanced perspective on the
so- called LSD epidemic. They continued to assert that psychedelics in medicine
was an important research field and repeated their call for controlled use and
further investigation into the black market drug world. By 1967, however, Hof-
fer and Osmond were increasingly frustrated by the lack of respect extended to
them by government policy makers. “We can take a hard line with the authori-
ties,” Osmond said in a letter to Hoffer. “They have not consulted us. They have
acted rashly and things look as if they are going badly and likely to go worse.
Young people don’t believe their lies and are consequently liable to disregard the
truth at the same time to their detriment.” The real dangers of acid abuse,
Osmond believed, stemmed from the persistence of ill-informed policies that
not only drove homemade psychedelics deeper underground but also further
weakened deference to authority. These wrongheaded policies, he asserted,
resulted in a situation where “the government and the professionals were
made to look stupid and the result was to amuse and raise the morale of illegal
users.” Osmond felt that a more empathetic approach to the problem would
result in a greater capacity to curb the real dangers presented by an unregu-
lated drug trade and, simultaneously, cultivate better attitudes toward author-
ity in general.27
Osmond felt that his responsibility, as a medical expert on psychedelic drugs,
was to identify the main issues involved in the LSD problem and direct research
and education toward solving them. Given the nature of LSD, especially its
potency and capacity for concealment, fears over its widespread use must be
handled delicately. The most pressing concern was the home production of
psychedelics. The availability of LSD-like substances stymied clinicians in their
attempt to treat people who were experiencing bad trips. Doctors treating people
for a bad drug reaction simply had no idea what kinds of chemicals the individ-
ual might have ingested. The most appropriate solution, according to Osmond,
was to clearly and publicly delineate the differences, and the consequences, be-
tween medical and recreational LSD. He believed that he had a medical respon-
sibility to investigate the problems posed by an alleged LSD-abuse epidemic. In a
heightened climate of moral panic, he asked, “what is the moral position of the
medical man who refuses to treat an immoral person or one who has trans-
gressed the law? Or who holds information which might prevent such a person
from being gravely ill.” Echoing his approach to examining mental illness, Os-
mond felt that the best method for curbing drug abuse depended on an under-
standing of the individual’s desire to take drugs in the first place. By applying
empathetic insight into drug-taking behavior, Osmond felt that more progres-
sive drug policies would result.28
Legal Measures
In 1966, federal debates in the Canadian Senate and House of Commons
again moved toward placing LSD on the official list of narcotics, which would
remove the possibility of continuing legal psychedelic drug research. While
legislation already restricted access to the drug to qualified medical researchers,
black market sources continued to provide illegal versions of acid to people for
nonmedical experimentation (and undoubtedly some medical experimentation
too). From 1963 to 1968, newspaper reports indicate that the production and
dissemination of illicit acid increased, which further undermined medical re-
search. Sandoz-produced supplies ensured that the products conformed to
standards concerning doses and ingredients; underground versions were, of
course, not subject to any quality controls. The media consistently conflated the
multiple versions of the drug and focused attention on black market LSD trips.
Impurities in the ingredients, varying doses, predispositions of users, and the
combined use of drugs or drug cocktails (including acid, marijuana, alcohol,
amphetamines, etc.) were all factors that could affect how subjects responded to
LSD. Despite Osmond’s insistence that medical researchers required more evi-
dence before making definitive statements about the drug epidemic, govern-
ments throughout North America began implementing laws to terminate the
spread of drugs.
Humphry Osmond thought the growth of recreational users demanded care-
ful investigation and public discussion. He deplored what he identified as reac-
tionary legislative decisions, which, he felt, drove bathtub acid production
deeper underground. He acknowledged that controlling trafficking in LSD was
a par ticular problem given the relative ease with which it could be produced and
the extraordinary difficulties surrounding its detection, both in terms of its

manufacture and its distribution. But he insisted that the current legislative
measures pushed LSD production and consumption further out of sight, which
created riskier circumstances for users while also undermining the ability of
clinicians to recognize and treat LSD-related problems.29
During this period, the Sandoz Pharmaceutical Company in Switzerland
remained the sole legal manufacturer of the drug, with regional distribution
centers in Canada and the United States. In 1963, this company temporarily
withdrew its supplies in an effort to help identify the underground sources.30
Medical researchers throughout North America continued to obtain the drug,
but governments now required researchers to formally apply for supplies
through a process external to Sandoz. In Canada, this measure complemented
an order-in- council passed in 1962 that restricted supplies to medical research-
ers.31 The Canadian federal government later bestowed the responsibility for
distribution on the Connaught Medical Laboratories in Willowdale, Ontario,
under the directorship of James Ferguson. Ferguson was a pharmacologist with
a par ticular interest in addictions. Connaught Laboratories had a long-standing
relationship with the Addictions Research Foundation of Ontario, making Con-
naught a suitable choice as the Canadian LSD distributor.32
These legislative measures apparently provided sufficient controls over the
errant distribution of LSD for the next few years, but in 1966 problems
reemerged. This time, Canada’s federal health minister, Allan MacEachen,
cited the growing publicity over LSD abuse and concerns that disaffected Amer-
ican youth smuggled LSD into Canada, as justification for additional and more
restrictive legislative controls. In par ticular, federal authorities demonstrated
uneasiness over allegations that Canada’s West Coast was becoming an impor-
tant satellite for the illegal U.S. drug trade.33 Since the 1962 order-in- council,
which placed LSD on a restricted substances list under the Food and Drugs Act,
possession of the drug was legal, but sale or purchase of LSD constituted a
criminal offense. The federal government was concerned that increased public-
ity about psychedelics in the United States was creating corresponding de-
mands in Canada. In response to these concerns, by early 1966, Canada’s
Department of Health recommended further investigations into LSD use in
Canada.34
A federal inquiry into the illegal sale and consumption of LSD was debated
in the House of Commons on May 6, 1966. Ten days later the minister of Na-
tional Health and Welfare, Allen MacEachen, made a lengthy statement in Par-
liament indicating his intention to appoint a federal commission of inquiry into
the situation. The federal government would also pass special measures giving
the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) drug enforcement units additional
authority in identifying the roots of the hallucinogenic drug trade. Minister
MacEachen’s pronouncement met with a cautionary statement from William
Dean Howe, a Member of Parliament from Hamilton South, who asserted that
“the drug has tremendous potential for medical research and should not be
curbed in this respect. However, the real danger of this drug lies not in the con-
trol of its lawful manufacture and importation but the ease with which it can be
made by amateurs and made available to younger people for the production of
kicks.” Debates at the federal level continued to invoke the need to distinguish
between recreational and medical LSD use.35
By November 1966, some members of Parliament had grown frustrated
with the slow pace of legislation in contrast to the perception of the rapidly
growing threat of LSD. Federal representatives pressed the national health and
welfare minister for immediate action. In par ticular, the Member of Parliament
from Okanagan-Revelstoke, Howard Johnston, chastised MacEachen for not
delivering on his promise to improve the RCMP’s drug enforcement measures.
He also criticized the federal government for its inaction in light of recent re-
ports in the national news media that known American LSD advocates had held
public forums on its use in Canada. He pointed to reports in the Canadian me-
dia about Timothy Leary and Allen Ginsberg and suggested that such news
stories gave these figures added publicity, which contributed to their popularity.
Their appearances reminded Canadians that government-funded agencies sup-
ported these speakers and therefore implicitly endorsed LSD use and, possibly,
countercultural ideals. Johnston recommended that the government “make
every effort to prevent the spread of this menace in our country.”36
In April 1967, Bill S-60 came before the Senate; the bill would amend the
Food and Drugs Act with regard to penalties for the sale and distribution of
LSD. The recommended changes would result in summary convictions for
first-time offenders, including a fine not to exceed one thousand dollars, impris-
onment for under six months, or both.37 Under the terms of the bill, anyone
caught with LSD risked jail time and a criminal record; this would include uni-
versity students and clinicians who had not secured special government per-
mission. Some senators felt the proposed measures were overly punitive. They
recommended medical treatment for the student-aged offenders.38
Consideration for the kinds of people routinely involved in LSD use pro-
longed the debates over its legal characterization. If LSD remained under the
jurisdiction of the Food and Drugs Act, clinical experiments could continue
and the criminalization of illegal users would carry less severe penalties. If the
federal government reclassified the drug as a narcotic, it would come under the
jurisdiction of the Narcotic Control Act and would invoke the crime of traffick-
ing. Moreover, the potential criminalization of young university students cre-
ated an unsavory political problem.39
In the United States, three Senate investigations were launched into the grow-
ing abuse of LSD, especially on college campuses. A Washington newspaper re-
ported that “a college co-ed is given a capsule at a party, blacks out in a subway
car on her way home, ends up in a psychiatric ward. Two youths are arrested eat-
ing grass from a lawn and bark off the trees. These and other bizarre cases are in
the big file marked ‘LSD’ in the office of the Senate.” These alleged occurrences
became the subject of examinations by Senate subcommittees on juvenile delin-
quency, headed by Democratic senators John L. McClellan and Thomas J. Dodd.
The National Institute of Mental Health conducted two surveys into the growing
abuse of acid, with preliminary results suggesting that the scope of the crisis
was exaggerated. Senator Robert F. Kennedy added grist to the investigations
with a three-day hearing on the drug scene. Despite warnings that more public-
ity only amplified an already overblown situation, Senator Dodd told Washington
reporters that “we owe it to the public to get to the bottom of this problem before
it gets further out of hand.” American authorities moved toward implementing
stricter fines and sentences for possession and sale of the drug.40 In the United
States prohibitive measures extended into many areas of LSD investigation, ini-
tially only permitting research in veterans hospitals and projects sponsored by
the National Institute of Mental Health. In 1966, Sandoz voluntarily removed
LSD from its distribution list in the United States, maintaining that its legiti-
mate supplies were not responsible for the black market but that the “unforeseen
public reaction” necessitated the removal of Sandoz LSD.41
Osmond wrote to Senator Kennedy in May 1966 and appealed to him as a
progressive, young American leader. In his letter, he carefully distinguished be-
tween clinical psychedelic research from the unregulated production and distri-
bution of psychedelic-like substances. He urged Kennedy to consider the essential
contributions of medical experts in determining the most sustainable resolution
to the drug panic. In the case of LSD, Osmond explained, the real medical ex-
perts were practitioners with personal experiences; those without these critical
insights seemed more susceptible to the public panic. The crux of the problem,
according to Osmond, concerned the proliferation of allegedly hallucinogenic
substances in the black market. Legislative measures targeting LSD, therefore,
missed the central issue and unnecessarily constrained legitimate research:
“The outcome must result in the illegitimate users becoming far more knowl-
edgeable about these substances than the legitimate non-users.” The solution, as
Osmond saw it, depended on the cooperation between medical authorities, who
had engaged in self-experimentation, and government officials.42
The Psychodelytic Response

Ross MacLean at Hollywood Hospital took a leading role in organizing a re-
sponse from psychedelic psychiatrists. He worked closely with colleagues in
Saskatchewan, such as Abram Hoffer and Duncan Blewett, to articulate a cohe-
sive medical perspective on the situation. This loose coalition of western-
Canada-based psychedelic investigators supported Osmond’s view that sup-
pression and prohibition did not solve the problem but instead endangered
psychedelic research under the guise of respecting public safety. The underly-
ing problem, MacLean maintained, was a fundamental misunderstanding of
the nature of psychedelics and of the black market in chemical substances. He
argued, “current legislation and regulation is a classic example of ‘throwing out
the baby with the bathwater’!”43 Some researchers, including, initially, MacLean,
were tempted to blame Timothy Leary for the widespread overreaction to LSD
abuse. Ultimately, MacLean thought that medical and political authorities
needed to address public anxieties with reasoned debate and a balanced assess-
ment of psychedelics by medical experts.
On March 10, 1967, Vancouver’s medical health officer, J. L. Gayton, issued
an open letter to all young people and parents describing the dangers of LSD.
The pamphlet outlined the risks and effects associated with taking psychedelic
drugs, allegedly with supporting scientific evidence from the Narcotic Founda-
tion of British Columbia and “other reliable sources.” The open letter explained
that youth were particularly susceptible to the drug’s overpowering effects,
which might lead to suicide and permanent brain damage. Furthermore, it ex-
plained that LSD was indeed not a psychedelic, because it “shrank” the mind
rather than “expanding” it. After outlining the legal consequences, the leaflet
concluded with the assertion that “case histories show a slipping in achieve-
ment in every phase of life. Secrecy that surrounds the use of LSD and all illicit
drugs tends to drive young people into groups separated from the rest of soci-
ety.” This letter was part of a wider political campaign against youth activism,
or at least certain types of youth activism.44
In response, Ross MacLean, Abram Hoffer, Harold Abramson, and Hum-
phry Osmond formed the International Association of Psychodelytic Therapy to
continue combating the growing demonization of LSD. The committee’s name

was intended not only to establish its bona fides as an international organiza-
tion but also to distance itself from the increasingly ambiguous term psyche-
delic, which they believed had been co- opted by nonmedical users. It also
represented a break from the Commission for the Study of Creative Imagina-
tion, which they felt had drifted away from clinical objectives and would not
have the appropriate weight in the ensuing debates.
In a news release of March 27, 1967, the newly formed psychodelytic commit-
tee complained about the hysteria that affected the reputation of serious medical
research. They declared that “it must first be recognised that d-lsd-25 as em-
ployed in medically supervised research and therapy is not the drug being so
widely misused.” They continued by explaining that “Pharmaceutical d-lsd-25 is
not addicting [sic]: it is not physically harmful; causes no ‘brain damage’, nor
other organic damage, and no death has been attributed to the drug per se.
When competently and ethically used, the likelihood of precipitating prolonged
depression, anxiety states or psychoses is of such rarity as to be almost non-
existent.” The problem, according to the committee, was with the impure chemi-
cal substances circulating in the black market. Additionally, they claimed that
the widely publicized fears propagated by government authorities further en-
couraged an already irreverent youth generation to experiment with these ver-
boten mind-manipulating substances. The misinformation distributed by the
media also embellished the dangers of the drug and ignored its benefits entirely.
For example, the committee members deplored the public misconception that
LSD caused flashbacks, which constituted a form of physiological harm or brain
damage. They complained that the idea that “spontaneous recurrence of percep-
tual distortions is proof of permanent brain damage is ludicrous. . . . The credi-
bility and effectiveness of all warnings is called into question by such overzealous
exaggeration.” The members of the psychodelytic organization maintained that
rational medical evidence offered reasonable solutions.45
Duncan Blewett responded to the pending legislation independently. In a
series of letters he explained his position with a sympathetic view toward young
LSD users. He believed that young students seeking self- exploration through
LSD led to greater self-understanding, a position that the Canadian government
should applaud. In a letter to then-member of Parliament Tommy Douglas
(former premier of Saskatchewan), Blewett stated: “LSD which is nonaddictive
and physically harmless is almost the perfect contraband (it can be absorbed on
cloth, paper, hair, candy or dissolved in alcohol or water and an active dose of it
is only 1/300,000 of an ounce). For these reasons the proposed legislation will
be subverted and the enforcement agencies will come to be regarded as stupid

and inept. This type of lawlessness fosters a general disregard for the law.” After
likening the discovery of LSD for psychiatry to the development of the micro-
scope for biology or the telescope for astronomy, Blewett concluded with an
open invitation to meet with federal bureaucrats to discuss the formation of
public policy regarding LSD. He included a list of other willing participants for
the purposes of such consultation and agreed to cover his own expenses.46
Blewett and other psychedelic researchers received stock responses from
Members of Parliament, including Saskatchewan representatives. Replies from
such federal officials often referred to the pending report of the federal inquiry
into the drug problem as proof of the government’s intention to examine the
issue carefully with appropriate input from medical experts. Leading psyche-
delic practitioners such as Humphry Osmond, Abram Hoffer, Colin Smith,
Duncan Blewett, and Ross MacLean were never invited to participate in the
commission. One disgruntled practitioner complained that “those who de-
manded the prohibition of psychedelics, and those who made the law, were, as
has been pointed out, not qualified by their own experience to decide whether
these agents are good for people or bad for them.” Consequently, he argued,
misinformed policy makers constructed laws based on moral responses to a
misunderstood dilemma.47
Osmond, then in New Jersey, remained dissatisfied with the Canadian gov-
ernment’s response and conducted an investigation of his own. After consult-
ing with college youth on university campuses and learning more about the
stereotypical counterculture, he found evidence supporting the connection be-
tween youth and a drug-stimulated revolution. In 1967, he met with a young
man who identified himself only as the alchemist. The alchemist claimed that
he controlled approximately 90 percent of the underground LSD available in the
United States; he also allegedly introduced the Beatles to LSD. He took his dis-
tribution mission very seriously and believed that psychedelics would inspire a
“pharmaco-political revolution.” The insurgency he described would “save man-
kind from the danger of the bomb and from the dangers of a mechanistic and
inhuman conformism.” The alchemist felt that the American way of life needed
to change and psychedelics generated the experiences necessary to incite the
requisite transformation in cultural values.48
Osmond reflected on his meeting with the alchemist and compared these
perspectives with his own views on psychedelics. He agreed that LSD experi-
ences might wield some political influence, because the ritual of the psychedelic
trip might impart a commonality of experience in users. This shared effect
created, according to Osmond, “the sense of sharing similar worlds and similar
goals and of being part of a larger whole in a way which no amount of meetings
can do.”49 The latent political and cultural potentialities of a psychedelic philos-
ophy did not alarm Osmond. Indeed, he later displayed sympathy for the alche-
mist’s revolutionary sentiments. Osmond believed in the underlying principles
of the alchemist’s idealized objectives. The young chemist envisioned a “techno-
tribalized society which is to a considerable extent non-bureaucratic and
non-hierarchical. This is a formidable and appealing model, even without
psychedelics; with them, it is something to be thought about.” Clearly, the kind
of cultural upheaval Osmond imagined had a positive outcome and did not
rouse any need for moral or political intervention. In fact, Osmond conveyed
compassion, perhaps even empathy, for the young revolutionary drug dealer.50
Osmond’s private tolerance for these revolutionary ideals, similar to Blewett’s
sympathy for the students’ eagerness for self-exploration, located them on the
wrong side of the concerns over increasing drug abuse. Osmond’s appeal for ad-
ditional clinical investigations into LSD applications also placed him on the
margins of his profession. By mid-decade, newspaper reports and government
legislation clarified the divisions between moral and immoral citizens; superfi-
cially, the over-thirty generation represented order, establishment, and authority
whereas youth inspired cultural change, radicalism, and antiauthority. Psyche-
delics became an important badge of the under-thirty revolutionary philosophy.
Several psychiatrists studying LSD and other psychedelics abandoned their re-
search at this time. They were pressured by government agencies, but they also
recognized that they could not perform scientific trials while the drug received
so much negative publicity. In sum, medical research on psychedelics bowed to
the profoundly influential cultural factors affecting continued investigation with
psychedelic drugs.
In Canada, a decisive condemnation of psychedelic psychiatry emerged after
the federal inquiry into the drug problem published its first set of reports (known
collectively as the Le Dain Report) in 1969. The Royal Commission on the
Non-Medical Use of Drugs concentrated on drug use in Toronto’s famous
youth-dominated area Yorkville, as well as Montreal and Vancouver, thus rein-
forcing an image of urban, middle-class youth taking drugs.51 The Le Dain
Commission also relied heavily on information supplied by the Addiction Re-
search Foundation of Ontario. In effect, the commission, and by extension pub-
lic policy, gave authority to a par ticular institutional organization.52 The inquiry
also distinguished medical from nonmedical uses along arbitrary lines.53 The
commission similarly overlooked the abuse of psychoactive substances through
prescription drugs. At the outset, the commission’s chair, Gerald Le Dain, ex-
plained the focus of the inquiry on the “non-medical use of sedative, stimulant,
tranquillising, hallucinogenic and other psychotropic drugs or substances.” The
concentration on par ticular kinds of drugs with what psychedelic researchers
felt was a corresponding underrepresentation of clinical expertise on the drugs
under examination further politicized the issue. The reports of the commission
confirmed earlier concerns that widespread youth consumption of drugs, with a
focus on LSD and marijuana, revealed an epidemic in drug abuse.54
Even before the federal commission reported its findings, provincial govern-
ments began imposing heavier fines for possession. In British Columbia, which
allegedly held the greatest fascination for American drug smugglers, the au-
thorities increased fines to two thousand dollars while neighboring Alberta
added jail terms to its drug legislation. Saskatchewan politicians remained
quiet in these debates. In 1968, the United Nations and the World Health Orga-
nization both recommended that nations comply with their demands to place
LSD and other hallucinogens on a narcotics schedule.55 The Canadian govern-
ment responded to these events, in combination with preliminary results from
the Le Dain investigation, by placing LSD under the jurisdiction of its Narcotic
Control Act in 1968, which effectively ended medical experimentation with the
drug and made all LSD use illegal.56
Osmond lamented that North Americans had chosen to reestablish a com-
fortable sense of order rather than invest in a potentially extraordinary medical
technology. He complained that “by devoting most of our energy to vague
threats and police action we have lost some of the more important attributes of
medical authority, which is mostly concerned with preservation of health and
the treatment and prevention of harm.” The legislative response to the drug
problem exacerbated an already strained relationship between traditional au-
thorities and the younger generation. The situation placed the medical commu-
nity in an awkward position, and Osmond chose to honor his responsibilities as
a medical expert, despite the politicized moral consequences of his actions. His
decision to hold steadfastly to his views on psychedelics affected his position
within the medical community.57
The new drug policies had enduring consequences for the legacy of scientific
psychedelic research. As Hoffer pointed out, “the American government has
[passed], or is thinking of passing new drug legislation which will give the
F.D.A. power to pass upon not only the safety of drugs but upon their efficacy.”
The result of these actions meant that, in Hoffer’s opinion, bureaucrats wielded
more power to make decisions that could affect scientific methodology than the
medicoscientific researchers themselves. Although Hoffer had been a relatively

conservative figure in the debates over the use of LSD in psychiatry, his views
now expressed a kind of sympathy for attitudes traditionally associated with the
counterculture, particularly adopting a critical outlook on the increasing power
of technocracy in its capacity to control decision making in society.58
In a final effort to demonstrate LSD’s therapeutic potential, psychedelic psy-
chiatrist Ray Denson conducted a survey in 1969 on the adverse effects and
complications based on research in Saskatchewan. He stated: “The experience
acquired in Saskatchewan has shown that research into LSD treatment can be
carried out in a general hospital setting with minimal hazard to the patient,
probably less than that which accompanies routine medical treatment. Is it too
much to hope that scientific objectivity will penetrate the atmosphere of hyste-
ria which surrounds this drug and that it will receive the attention from the
medical profession which its remarkable properties deserve?” Denson’s pleas
went unanswered for several decades. The research sanctuary once provided by
political and cultural conditions in Saskatchewan no longer existed. Many
psychedelic psychiatrists had left the province and ended their experimentation
with LSD. Politicians eager to endorse experimental ideas had similarly moved
out of the province or lost the enthusiasm that characterized the culture of ex-
perimentation of the 1950s. Denson’s remarks about the acceptance of psyche-
delic psychiatry in Saskatchewan described a bygone era.59
The strong moral, political, and medical opposition to LSD in psychiatry cul-
tivated a compelling image of the drug as quintessentially dangerous. Medical
and nonmedical factors contributed to the discrediting of psychedelic psychiatry
and the subsequent marginalization of this practice within the profession. As
clinicians such as Hoffer and Osmond failed to endorse their studies with the
right kind of scientifically approved methodologies, they attracted criticism from
within the profession. The moral panic surrounding LSD use in the late 1960s
focused on the dangers of the drug itself and leveled a damaging criticism at
LSD users, including those in the medical community. The combination of fac-
tors produced a historical assessment of LSD as medically misguided and cultur-
ally harmful. The efforts to control LSD, first within the laboratory and then
among the public, offers insights into the process of drug regulation that makes
it inseparable from its cultural context. Escalating fears over its abuse, coupled
with a growing realization that drug use might be curbed but not controlled, ex-
posed tensions within the medical community as well as divisions between clini-
cians and regulators.
Conclusion
In April 2007, Canadian psychologist Andrew Feldmar was denied entry

into the United States under the Homeland Security Act due to narcotics use.
Feldmar had taken LSD as part of a psychology experiment in the 1960s at the
University of Western Ontario under the direction of Saskatchewan native
Zenon Pylyshyn, who had worked with Hoffer, Osmond, and Blewett in the
1950s. As a graduate student, Feldmar had written about his experiences with
LSD, which he took to develop a better understanding of “self” and on which
he reflected in an article written for Janus Head in 2001. Although he had
participated in the experiments willingly and legally in the 1960s, by 2007
even Feldmar’s historical drug use was not shielded from international legal
scrutiny. The Canadian lawyer and criminologist Eugene Oscapella remarked
that “this is about the marriage of the war on drugs and the war on terror, and
the blind bureaucratic mindset it encourages.”1 This case suggests that in the
twenty-first century the connection between drug use and criminality re-
mains highly politicized and often the implications of that relationship have
very little to do with drug use itself. Instead, official reactions to LSD use in
this situation reveal the power of the state to enforce (and indeed reenforce) an
institutionalized view of what constitutes acceptable and nonacceptable drug
use, even when that drug use is in some way mediated by a connection to
medicoscientific research.
The same month that Andrew Feldmar was turned back from the U.S. bor-
der for his previous narcotic use, scientists in the United Kingdom published
the results of an investigation into the use of evidence for informing drug poli-
cies; they focused particularly on the assessment of harm that informs the drug
classification system. They published their findings in the Lancet, a leading in-
ternational scientific journal, and argued that “the current classification system
has evolved in an unsystematic way from somewhat arbitrary foundations with
seemingly little scientific basis.”2
Conclusion 139
By defining harm as a composite of factors including intoxication, damage to

family and social life, costs to the health care system, social care, and police
care, the group of more than seventy experts who contributed to the study
agreed that alcohol and tobacco are much more harmful than drugs that are
currently ranked in categories that carry more extreme legal penalties for their
use. Their study revealed a considerable degree of consensus among medical
and scientific researchers concerning the social harms of drugs, including alco-
hol and tobacco. Surmising that the lobbying efforts of the tobacco and alcohol
industries undoubtedly played a role in the formation of the Misuse of Drugs
Act in Britain, the authors also contended that the absence of medical scientists
in policy discussions has led to a framework of penal regulation that is not
based on scientific evidence.3
The regulation of drug use, they contend, is arbitrary and lacks a scientific
foundation; this situation is especially true for psychedelic drugs. Drugs such
as LSD and ecstasy, according to these investigations, have been placed in the
highest risk categories without sufficient scientific evidence to indicate that
they cause harm necessitating such a ranking. Conversely, alcohol and tobacco
remain in lower harm categories, while this scientifically evaluated harm study
ranked them much higher, fifth and ninth, respectively. These findings illus-
trate a growing disjunction between political and scientific pronouncements of
risk.4
The historical legacy of LSD in psychiatry illustrates some of the complexi-
ties that are involved in determining the value of a drug; however, the debate
over this drug is not over. Recently the therapeutic uses of psychedelic drugs
have resurfaced. Activity in this field has grown and shows signs of a revival.
Medical researchers in the United States, United Kingdom, and Europe have
begun to openly engage in psychedelic experimentation again; research pro-
grams include investigating the current applications of LSD, psilocybin, and
ibogaine for various therapies, including treating cluster headaches, addictions,
depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder.
Contemporary research with the psychedelic drug MDMA (methylenedi-
oxymethamphetamine), popularly known as “ecstasy,” suggests that this psy-
choactive substance may affect serotonin levels. Researchers in the United
States are currently examining the usefulness of MDMA in treating pain asso-
ciated with Parkinson’s disease and cancer in addition to investigating its role in
psychotherapy for people suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.5 Both
LSD and MDMA incite debate as to whether their therapeutic benefit derives
from the often- described feeling of heightened self-awareness produced by a
psychedelic experience or whether the credit belongs to some as-yet-unknown

or at best poorly understood metabolic reaction. Meanwhile, some researchers
continue to use psychedelics to explore consciousness. Chief among the propo-
nents of this approach is Alexander Shulgin, who has been investigating MDMA
for its capacity to induce mystic experiences, which might also bring forth some
therapeutic benefits.6
Other psychedelic drugs are also beginning to attract attention from clinical
researchers who feel they may have been overlooked in the past. In December
2006 the Chronicle of Higher Education reported on a study at Johns Hopkins
Bayview Medical Center involving thirty-six people who took psilocybin to test
the drug’s capacity to induce a mystical experience. These twenty-first century
researchers feel that advances in neuropharmacology and neurobiology permit
more sophisticated investigations of psychedelic drugs now, ones that extend
beyond mere studies of consciousness. Psilocybin, for instance, appears to gen-
erate relief for some patients with cluster headaches. Researchers R. Andrew
and John H. Halpern at MacLean Hospital, a Harvard Medical School affiliate,
have been exploring the use of psilocybin in this way without resistance from
their colleagues, but they are reluctant to generate publicity about their findings
yet due to the history of psychedelics. Similarly, Francisco Morens at the Uni-
versity of Arizona has found that psilocybin appears to benefit patients with
obsessive- compulsive disorder, particularly people who do not respond well to
Prozac. These kinds of studies help revive curiosity about the therapeutic ben-
efits of psychedelic drugs.7
LSD has also received sustained attention from researchers interested in
resurrecting its medical use. In April 2007, the Beckley Foundation in combi-
nation with the University of California, San Francisco, announced that they
plan to explore LSD with human subjects; if so, this would represent the first
legal study in North America involving human subjects since the criminaliza-
tion of LSD. 8 With few details yet released, the study promises to engage in a
“wider exploration of the neural processes underlying consciousness and show
how LSD might be a useful tool in neuroscience, in psychotherapy, in personal
development and for enhancing creativity.”9 If the study proceeds, its results
will likely be tracked by psychedelic supporters and enthusiasts, many of whom
connect through the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies
(MAPS), an international organization based in Florida and in operation since
1986 that has functioned as a repository for psychedelic research. The organiza-
tion connects researchers and has digitized historical as well as current infor-
mation and published research.10
Conclusion 141
These efforts to resurrect psychedelic studies in medicoscientific investiga-

tions share common methodological ground with some of the research from
the 1950s. Ronald Sandison, who investigated LSD in the 1950s in the UK, has
revisited the historical studies in combination with the more recent ones and
recommends taking a sober second look at the work conducted more than fifty
years ago.11 A new generation of scholars is also beginning to link the studies at
midcentury with recent developments. Ben Sessa, also working in the UK, reex-
amined the historical LSD investigations according to some of the original
claims about its efficacy in clinical settings; he recommends reintroducing LSD
into the therapeutic arsenal.12 University of Cambridge history and philosophy
graduate Jonathan Hobbs surveyed the historical and current applications of
LSD and found that contemporary studies of LSD have learned important les-
sons from the psychedelic trials of the 1950s and 1960s; they have also encoun-
tered fierce regulatory obstacles as a poignant reminder of the legacy of these
earlier trials. Some of the resistance to a psychedelic renaissance stems from
the difficulties surrounding the drug’s regulation: clinical investigators have
encountered obstacles in securing supplies of LSD due to its historical reputa-
tion. Researchers also worry that a lack of effective controls on recreational use
of the drug might derail legitimate studies as it did in the past.13
The medical lessons of the past may offer some tantalizing hypotheses for
future research initiatives, but the question of regulation looms large. In spite of
some recognizable therapeutic benefits, LSD has caused physiological and psy-
chological harm for some users. Moreover, the recreational appeal of the drug
makes its confinement to a clinical space difficult. And historical examples sug-
gest that medical experimentation itself transgressed boundaries of acceptable
use.
Several different perspectives emerge regarding the management of LSD.
Abram Hoffer consistently advocated for LSD’s strict confinement to a medical
setting, with controls exercised by incorporating surveillance measures by
health professionals, preferably those who had personal experience with the
drug. In this scenario, LSD would be used for treatment purposes in safe, clini-
cal settings, with responsibility for its use (and abuse) restricted to the medical
community. LSD would be administered through carefully monitored clinical
channels, reminding patients and or subjects of the drug’s utility as a tool of
medicine. The medical profession would play a role in scientific research to
continually refine the therapeutic applications in a manner commensurate with
contemporary pharmacological investigations. Predictably, in such a situation,
the medical and pharmacological community would serve as the authority on
LSD and drug policies would draw upon this pool of expertise for designing an
appropriate set of legal consequences for transgressions. Emphasizing the
drug’s medical use might help it shed its reputation as a recreational substance,
although that development appears more hopeful than certain. Hoffer’s atti-
tude differed significantly from his colleagues.
Duncan Blewett, for example, shared Hoffer’s belief that LSD had therapeu-
tic properties, but he also supported the liberalization of drug policies—for LSD
as well as marijuana—reflecting an underlying belief that individuals should
have the right to choose which substances they consume. He coupled this lib-
eral attitude toward drugs with a faith that public education would provide po-
tential consumers with the means to engage in their own risk-benefit analysis,
thus placing responsibility with the individual. In this scenario the medical
community might contribute to the cultural awareness about the drug through
its links to public health and education, but without passing moral judgment on
drug use. Here, the medical community would provide information about drugs
without making pronouncements about the value of a drug. The policy makers
are even less visible in this scenario, though Blewett at times flirted with the
suggestion that the state might play a more active role in drug regulation by
monitoring supplies, ensuring quality control, and even profiting from taxing
the sale of drugs, in a manner similar to the way the government controls alco-
hol sales.14 Blewett’s approach made authority over the drug into a rather dif-
fuse concept, where responsibility for its use fell primarily to the individual
consumer.
Humphry Osmond felt that the medical community had an important role to
play in the moral regulation of drugs, and he disagreed with Hoffer on the no-
tion of strict clinical control. He was also apprehensive about Blewett’s stance,
which he regarded as somewhat reckless. Ultimately, he felt that regardless of
how drugs are regulated, some people will develop an appetite for drug use,
which they will pursue—legally or illegally. Osmond thought that punitive
measures that criminalized users simply drove drug markets deeper under-
ground, where conventional regulatory schemes had little effect, except to rein-
force the criminal character of such activity. In that situation, the medical
community was forced to assume a back seat to the legal authorities. Users
seeking medical assistance would already be labeled criminal and might even
try to conceal their interaction with drugs in an attempt to escape such judge-
ments. Osmond deplored this state of affairs, which he felt placed users and
clinicians on somewhat equal footing vis á vis the law. He envisioned a multi-
Conclusion 143
layered approach to drug regulation that required investment from the medical,
political, and cultural players. The medical researchers and practitioners, the
policy makers, and the users themselves needed to collaboratively establish the
parameters of control in order to create the conditions for genuine interaction.
Osmond deflected responsibility away from par ticular individuals or regulatory
bodies and into a consensual process, where each of these three perspectives
contributed a different kind of expertise. Unlike Blewett, Osmond believed that
some modicum of control was necessary and even progressive, but that an em-
phasis on one body over the other resulted in an imbalanced system, with the
potential for producing more harm than good.
These perspectives are not unique to these people, nor are the history of LSD
and the associated concerns about its regulation exceptional when compared
with other drugs. But, while discussions centered on the regulation of LSD
might cover well-traveled territory when it comes to drugs that have shifted
from a clinical setting into more recreational environments, psychedelic drugs
have a somewhat different social character. Indeed, even when LSD was legal,
the drug gave rise to irresponsible proselytizing and reckless experimentation.
Some people became enveloped in ideological musings about the inner work-
ings of the mind, while others embraced LSD as a means of binding people to-
gether in a peaceful and harmonious expression of a collective humanitarian
community. The cultural meaning ascribed to LSD made its regulation all the
more political. Heroin users, for example, have yet to claim that the drug stimu-
lates creativity to the extent that it improves humanity; psychedelic drug
users—medical and nonmedical alike—have made such claims. Control of LSD
to them, admittedly a minority of users, represents a restriction on their intel-
lectual freedom.
The renewal of interest in reviving psychedelic therapies suggests that a
flashback may be on the horizon. Meanwhile, public education campaigns link-
ing LSD with terrifying consequences, including mental illness, along with the
increasing availability of new psychoactive substances, has resulted in decreased
LSD consumption since the 1970s. If this trend continues, the LSD of the
2000s might not inspire the same kind of psychedelic craze that occurred in
the 1960s. But even if LSD joined the ranks of prescribed psychoactive medica-
tions and fell under direct control of the medicopharmacological authorities,
that would be no guarantee that it would not be abused—just as there is no
guarantee that Ritalin, Valium, Prozac, and other prescription drugs are not
abused.
Meanwhile, what bearing can a history of psychedelic psychiatry have on the

future of LSD? It cannot resolve the question of whether a psychedelic resurrec-
tion will occur nor what direction such a resurrection might take. But it can
provide a critical analysis of the history of drug regulation—and perhaps some
understanding of the underlying complexities that lie beyond a simple pro-
nouncement of which side you are on.
notes
Introduction
1. Hoffer, “Humphry Osmond Obituary,” Saskatchewan Archives Board (hereafter

SAB), A207, Hoffer, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 1.a., 12 Octo-
ber–31 December 1951, Humphry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 29 May 1953.
2. Huxley, Doors of Perception, 17; SAB, A207, Hoffer, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Corre-
spondence, 1951–92, 20.a., Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1 September–31 December
1965.
3. SAB, A207, Hoffer XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 20.a., 1 Sep-
tember–31 December 1965. Osmond recalled this exchange in Osmond to Dr. Harriet
Mann, re: The Psychedelic Experience, 12 October 1965. This rhyme has been cited else-
where as “to fathom Hell,” but in the correspondence, Osmond wrote “to fall in Hell.”
4. SAB, A207, Hoffer XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 20.a., 1
September–31 December 1965.
5. Ibid. See also SAB, A207, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 3.a.,
Humphry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 5 April 1956. In this letter Osmond revealed his
intention to create a specific word for the LSD or mescaline experience; he preferred
psychodelic or psychedelic. He considered psychorhexic but feared it sounded too much like
one of Adolf Meyer’s words for the “phrenias,” and he wanted to avoid any connotation of
illness.
6. Osmond, “A Review of the Clinical Effects of Psychotomimetic Agents,” 418–34.
7. A hallucination is the effect of perceiving something that is not there or not per-
ceiving something that is, in fact, there. Delusions are fixed false beliefs that are incon-
gruent with cultural norms.
8. Marks, The Search for the “Manchurian Candidate.” For example, the CIA grew
concerned that the Soviet military would terrorize Americans by putting LSD in the wa-
ter supplies. The CIA attempted to train personnel who could operate under these condi-
tions.
9. Weinstein, A Father, a Son, and the CIA, 278.
146 Notes to Pages 4–14
10. The experiments amounted to a kind of brainwashing; Cameron, “Psychic Driv-

ing,” 502–9. A number of newspaper articles covered the Orlikow case. For example,
“ ‘Pile of Money’ Could Be Made over CIA Brainwashing Suit,” Times- Colonist, 10 June
1982, 22; Anne Beirne, “The Ghost of the Godfather,” Maclean’s (1982), 32; “MP’s Wife
and Hospital Settle Suit,” Globe and Mail, 14 May 1981, 3; “Five Suing US over CIA Drug
Test,” Globe and Mail, 18 December 1980, 13; “Treatment of MP’s Wife Akin to Torture,”
Globe and Mail, 5 May 1981, 10; “Methods to Crack Spies Inflicted on MP’s Wife, Psy-
chiatrist Tells Court,” Globe and Mail, 6 May 1981, 9; “LSD Guinea Pig Relives a Night-
mare,” Toronto Sun, 6 May 1981; and “MP’s Wife Can Sue over ‘Experiments’,” Colonist,
17 November 1979, 39.
11. See Leary, Metzner, and Alpert, The Psychedelic Experience.
12. For literature on these histories see David Courtwright, Forces of Habit; Carstairs,
Jailed for Possession; Martel, Not This Time; and Spillane, Cocaine.
13. Catherine Carstairs illustrates this point in “The Drug Panic of the 1920s and the
Drive for Chinese Exclusion,” where she argues that drug policies revealed strong
anti- Chinese sentiments (Carstairs, Jailed for Possession, 16–34).
14. For example, see Angell, The Truth about the Drug Companies. For a history of
psychopharmacology see Healy, Creation of Psychopharmacology.
15. For information on this history, see Acker, Creating the American Junkie, and
Tracy, Alcoholism in America.
16. Shorter, A History of Psychiatry, 246–72; Healy, Anti-Depressant Era, 1; Szasz,
Ceremonial Chemistry, 139.
17. See also Healy, Creation of Psychopharmacology.
18. For the remainder of this book, I will no longer refer to normals in quotation
marks. The term is problematic and difficult to define, but it was the historical term
used specifically in reference to nonpatients. The term was regularly used in the reports
of the clinical trials to refer to volunteer subjects who formed part of the nonpatient
group. Generally the term does not extend to medical professionals who were also sub-
jects in the trials, whose experiences rarely (if ever) figure into the statistical reports. For
further discussion of the trials and selection criteria see chapter 2.
19. Crockford, “Dr. Yes,” and Crockford, “B.C.’s Acid Flashback.”
One • Psychedelic Pioneers
1. Stevens, Storming Heaven, 4–5; Brecher, Licit and Illicit Drugs, 346–47; and Hof-
mann, LSD.
2. Hofmann, “Partialsynthese von Alkaloiden vom Typus des Ergobasins,” 944–65;
see also Hofmann, “Discovery,” 1.
3. Tom Ban quoted in Tansey, “‘They Used to Call It Psychiatry,’” 79; Healy, Creation
of Psychopharmacology, 77–78.
4. Healy, Anti-Depressant Era, 43–45.
5. Positive symptoms refer to behaviors, thoughts, or feelings that exist where they
should not. Hallucinations and delusions are examples of positive symptoms.
Notes to Pages 14–17 147
6. For information on deinstitutionalization see Goodwin, Comparative Mental

Health Policy; Wolfensberger, Nirje, et al., The Principle of Normalization; Jones, Asylums
and After; and G. Grob, From Asylum to Community.
Gerald Grob argues that new psychopharmaceutical drugs were one of several causes
of deinstitutionalization in G. Grob, “American Psychiatry,” 50. However, some authors
contend that drugs were of “paramount importance” for deinstitutionalization; for ex-
ample, see Gijswijt-Hofstra, Van Heteren, and Tansey, Biographies of Remedies, 4.
7. For example, see Killam, “Studies of LSD and Chlorpromazine,” 35; Abramson
and Rolo, “Lysergic Acid Diethylamide,” 307–10; and Sankar, Siva, Gold, and Phipps,
“Effects of BOL,” 344.
8. For a survey of the historical and current applications of psychedelic drugs, with a
par tic u lar emphasis on LSD, see Hobbs, “The Medical History of Psychedelic Drugs.”
9. SAB, C128, Osmond-McEnaney interview, 1960, transcript, 5.
10. Ibid., 1–12.
11. Ibid., 19.
12. National Archives of Canada, RG 28, I 165, Canadian Psychiatric Association,
Membership Applications, Dr. Osmond’s membership application, 3 January 1955. He
had some initial experience in psychiatry as an intern at Guy’s Hospital in London in
1942. In 1944, after meeting Curran, he worked as a psychiatrist trainee at the Royal
Naval Auxiliary Hospital in Burrow Gurney, Bristol, England, followed by a second navy
assignment in Cholmundely Castle at Cheshire. From 1945 to 1947, he worked first as a
specialist in neuropsychiatry in Bighi, Malta, then as command psychiatrist in the 90th
Military Hospital in Malta. In 1948 he returned to Guy’s Hospital as an assistant in the
Department of Neurology before becoming first assistant in the Department of Psycho-
logical Medicine at St. George’s Hospital at Hyde Park Corner, London.
13. Sanger, “Mescaline, LSD, Psilocybin, and Personality Change,” nn1 and 2; and
C. Grob, “Psychiatric Research,” 8–20. See also James, Varieties of Religious Experience;
Mitchell, “Remarks on the Effects of Anhelonium lewinii,” 1625–29; and Ellis, “Mescal, a
New Artificial Paradise,” 537–48.
Beringer, Der Meskalinrausch; Rouhier, La Peyotl; and Klüver, Mescal. For a historical
analysis of these earlier studies see Smythies, “The Mescaline Phenomena,” 339–47;
Smythies, “Hallucinogenic Drugs”; and Grinspoon and Bakalar, “Psychedelic Drugs
Reconsidered.”
14. Smythies, “Autobiography,” and Osmond and Hoffer, “A Small Research in
Schizophrenia,” 92. I am grateful to John Smythies for sharing his manuscript with me.
15. As part of his interest in peyote, Osmond participated in a traditional ceremony
with a band of Cree Indians at the Red Pheasant Reserve in Saskatchewan. A description
of his experience can be found in SAB, XII, 13, F. H. Kahan, “The Native American
Church of North America,” typescript, 1963, and Osmond, “Peyote Night,” 112. See also,
Wuttunee, “Peyote Ceremony,” 22–25. For comment on the connections between the
ceremonious use of peyote and LSD experimentation, see Simmons, “Implications of
Court Decisions,” 83–91. For information on the peyote ceremony more generally, see
Hall, Archaeology of the Soul; La Barre, Peyote Cult; and Anderson, Peyote.
16. Smythies, “Autobiography.”

17. Excerpt from Smythies, “Autobiography.” The quotation is from Gelman, Medicat-
ing Schizophrenia, 1.
18. Smythies, “Autobiography.” Smythies contends that this was the first biochemi-
cal theory of schizophrenia.
19. SAB, A207, Box 47, 122.233. A: “Mexcaline,” [sic], and Osmond and Smythies,
“Schizophrenia,” 309–15.
20. Alexander and Selesnick, History of Psychiatry, 253–54.
21. SAB, A207, Box 47, 122.233A: “Mexcaline” [sic], and Osmond and Smythies,
“Schizophrenia,” 2.
22. Included in their first publication was a note about the similar reactions pro-
duced by LSD, despite the chemical differences between LSD and mescaline. Recogniz-
ing LSD’s ability to produce profound reactions, they recommended further trials using
the drug to develop a better understanding of its relationship with adrenaline. SAB,
A207, Box 47, 122.233A: “Mexcaline” [sic], and Osmond and Smythies, “Schizophrenia,” 3.
23. For more on the research climate in the UK, see Hayward, “Making Psychiatry
English.”
24. Mombourquette, “An Inalienable Right,” 101–16; Shillington, The Road to Medi-
care; Tollefson, Bitter Medicine; Ostry, “Prelude to Medicare,” 87–105; Badgley and Wolfe,
Doctors’ Strike; M. Taylor, Health Insurance and Canadian Public Policy; and Naylor, Pri-
vate Practice, Public Payment.
25. Lipset, Agrarian Socialism; Laycock, Populism and Democratic Thought; Young,
Democracy and Discontent; Penner, From Protest to Power; Ward and Spafford, Politics in
Saskatchewan; and Rasporich, “Utopia, Sect and Millennium,” 217–43.
26. Finkel, Social Credit Phenomenon; and Morton, Progressive Party in Canada.
27. Douglas, “Problems of the Subnormal Family.” The section in Douglas’s mas-
ter’s thesis on eugenics is IV.I.c. (there are no page numbers). Douglas’s eugenicist
ideas pose a problem for many of his biographers. The majority of these authors, who
are sympathetic to Douglas’s socialism, stress his post-1944 history and ignore the
question of eugenics. Angus McLaren, in a study of eugenics in Canada, explains
Douglas’s eugenicist approach as a relatively more popu lar perspective before World
War II. The issue of Douglas’s views on eugenics would benefit from more focused re-
search, but it is clear that by the time Douglas was elected in Saskatchewan he no
longer referred to programs that could be regarded as sympathetic to sterilization. See
the introduction in McLaren, Our Own Master Race. For examples of Douglas biogra-
phies on this issue, see McLeod and McLeod, Tommy Douglas, and Stewart, Life and
Political Times of Tommy Douglas.
28. Officially, the province maintained an agreement with the Brandon Hospital in
Manitoba. See further discussion in this chapter on McKerracher’s investigation of men-
tal health ser vices.
29. Centre for Addiction and Mental Health Archives, Saskatchewan Psychiatry,
general file: Shervert H. Frazier and Alex D. Pokorny, Report of a Consultation to the Min-
ister of Public Health on the Psychiatric Ser vices of Saskatchewan September–December
1967, 3.
30. In 1946, the Department of National Health and Welfare stated that Saskatch-
ewan “has no metropolitan area,” suggesting that the location of its next mental health
care facility need not be confined to Saskatoon or Regina, National Archives of Canada,
RG 29, National Health and Welfare, “Report on Hospital Facilities.”
31. National Archives of Canada, RG-29, “Mental Health in Canada.” Costs rose
from $1.80 per day in 1948 to $1.98 in 1949.
32. Saskatchewan Legislative Records, Legislative Journal, sess. 1945, vol. 44, p. 14.
33. Census data from Canada Year Book, Dominion Bureau of Statistics, Statistics
Canada, as recorded in Encyclopedia of Saskatchewan, 706. This included a 10 percent
increase in the urban population, suggesting that the population distribution was also
changing during this period.
34. Sommer, “Psychology in the Wilderness,” 26; Wright, “Psychologists at Work,”
26; Alan Blakeney, professor emeritus and former Saskatchewan premier, interview
with author, 16 June 2003, Saskatoon.
35. Joyce Munn, former psychiatric nurse, interview with author, 29 June 2003, Van-
couver Island. Along with research and educational opportunities, the health reforms in
the province created new job categories for women. Saskatchewan developed the first
program for psychiatric nursing. A provincial system of loans and bursaries opened
doors for nurse training in the province and created unparalleled professional prospects
for psychiatric nurses. See Dooley, “ ‘They Gave Their Care,’ ” 229–51.
36. See Sommer, “Psychology in the Wilderness,” 26–29. He no longer agrees with
this assessment. Allen Blakeney also recalled that his first accommodations in Regina
were not equipped with indoor plumbing.
37. Crockford, “Dr. Yes,” 43.
38. Mombourquette, “An Inalienable Right,” 109; Frank Coburn, psychiatrist, inter-
view with author, 21 August 2003, Saskatoon.
39. Frank Coburn, psychiatrist, interview with author, 21 August 2003, Saskatoon.
40. These same sentiments are found in a national survey of psychiatric ser vices in
Canada, Tyhurst et al., More for the Mind.
41. For a brief description of the program’s research aims and a corresponding list of
its publications in 1955, see SAB, A207, III, 194.a., McKerracher, from Abram Hoffer to
D. G. McKerracher, 25 May 1955. Fischer and Agnew, “On Drug-Produced Experimental
Psychoses,” 431; Fischer, “Factors Involved in Drug-Produced Model Psychoses,” 623;
Osmond, “Inspiration and Method,” 1-12; Lucy, “Histamine Tolerance in Schizophre-
nia,” 629; Hoffer and Parsons, “Histamine Therapy for Schizophrenia,” 352; Hoffer,
Osmond, and Smythies, “Schizophrenia,” 29; Hoffer and Agnew, “Nicotinic Acid,” 12;
and Smythies, “Experience and Description of the Human Body,” 132.
42. Smythies joined Osmond in Weyburn until he received an invitation from Bill
Gibson, head of the Neurological Institute at the University of British Columbia, to work
in Vancouver. A few years later he returned to London, England. In 1961, Smythies
moved again. This time he went to Edinburgh to work as editor of the International Re-
view of Neurobiology and as a senior lecturer at the University of Edinburgh. During his
stay in Scotland, Smythies acted as a consultant to the World Health Organization on
psychopharmacological matters. By 1968, he took yet another appointment, which
brought him back across the Atlantic to participate in a newly developed neuroscience
research program at MIT in Cambridge, Massachusetts. This information comes cour-
tesy of John Smythies, who generously shared selections of his “Autobiography” with
me.
43. For further information on Hoffer, Saskatchewan, see Hoffer and Kahan, Land of
Hope. Abram’s father came to Saskatchewan as part of a Jewish agricultural relocation
program. Hoffer Sr. was sent to Saskatchewan to establish an agricultural community
that would absorb Jewish immigrants. Although the program was not very successful, it
is likely that Abram developed an interest in agriculture in this context.
44. SAB, A207, Correspondence, McKerracher, from A. Hoffer to D. G. McKer-
racher, 20 April 1950, 1.
45. These sentiments were revealed in a number of interviews with the author, in-
cluding those with the psychologist Robert Sommer, 29 May 2003, phone interview; the
psychologist and graduate student Neil Agnew, 1 November 2003, King City; and the
nurse Joyce Munn, 29 June 2003, Vancouver Island. These feelings also match with col-
legial recollections of Ben Stefaniuk who worked closely with Osmond as a graduate
student.
46. Saskatchewan Legislative Records. Legislative Journal, sess. 1945, vol. 44, T. C.
Douglas, “health ser vices speech,” p. 20.
47. Terry Russell, psychiatrist, interview with author, 28 June 2003, Victoria, British
Columbia, and Ian Macdonald, psychiatrist, interview with author, 29 August 2003,
Saskatoon.
48. Twenty years later, these concerns resonated in a department that had focused
most of its energies on developing biochemical research, much of which involved LSD
experimentation.
49. SAB, A207, III, 63, correspondence with Mrs. M. Clements, Abram Hoffer,
“Progress Report on Saskatchewan Psychiatric Research,” [circa 1955,] 2.
50. Healy, The Creation of Psychopharmacology; Shorter, A History of Psychiatry;
Montcrieff, “An Investigation,” 475–90; and Valenstein, Blaming the Brain.
51. Collin, “Entre Discours et Pratiques,” 61–89; and Montcrieff, “An Investigation,”
475–90. As these authors point out, drugs had been used in psychiatry throughout the
nineteenth century. However, as David Healy illustrates in The Creation of Psychophar-
macology, 77–78, the development of antipsychotic medications in the early 1950s dra-
matically altered drug-taking regimens in psychiatry. Instead of relying on drugs such
as tranquilizers to calm patients in order to proceed with a therapy, the drugs themselves
became the main therapeutic agent.
52. Pressman, Last Resort, and Braslow, Mental Ills and Bodily Cures.
53. See Fennell, Treatment without Consent, 129–50.
54. Healy, The Anti-Depressant Era, 21.
Two • Simulating Psychoses
1. SAB, A207, AIII, Box 56 “Sidney Katz,” excerpts from “My 12 Hours as a Mad-
man,” Maclean’s, 1 October 1953, 9–12.
2. Ibid., 9–13, 46–55.

3. SAB, A207, Hoffer, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 1.a., 12 Oc-
tober–31 December 1951, 14 November 1951, record of a meeting between Dr. Devries
and Dr. Young (Ottawa) and Dr. Hoffer and Dr. Osmond.
4. SAB, A207, Hoffer, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 1.a., 12
October–31 December 1951, Abram Hoffer to Humphry Osmond, 14 December 1951.
5. Osmond, “On Being Mad,” 4. See also, Osmond and Smythies, “Schizophrenia,”
309–15.
6. SAB, A207, Hoffer, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 1.a., 12
October–31 December 1951, Humphry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 15 February 1953. The
handwritten correspondence is not always easy to decipher; the quoted material is my
best interpretation.
7. Although I was unable to locate written records confirming this point (if such rec-
ords exist), oral interviews revealed that wives played an integral role in the early trials.
Conversations and anecdotal recollections from friends of couples who participated in
these experiments also emphasized the regularity and importance of these joint experi-
ences: Rose and Abe Hoffer, Jane and Humphry Osmond, Neil and Mary Agnew, Amy
and Kyo Izumi, Duncan and June Blewett, Laura and Aldous Huxley.
8. Amy Izumi, widow of Kyoshi Izumi (architect), interview with author, 10 October
2003, Scarborough, Ontario.
9. SAB, A207, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 1.b. Abram Hoffer
to Humphry Osmond, 7 April 1953, 1. The experiment with nicotinic acid was done with
the research psychologist Neil Agnew.
10. SAB, A207, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 1.b. “Dr. Osmond’s
Report,” November 1952, 3. These doses are minute measurements when compared with
the use of other drugs, but when compared with LSD sold in the black market, these doses
were “megahits.” According to a U.S. Department of Justice description of “street acid,”
seized sources contain an average of 5 to 10 mcg of LSD, though current amounts range
from 20 to 80 mcg. www.fas.org/irp/agency/doj/dea/product/lsd/execsum.htm. Canadian
sources indicated that a “usual dose” of LSD sold for between five and ten dollars on the
black market. Clement, Solursh, Chapman, “Hallucinogenic Drug Abuse,” 31.
11. For example, Colin Smith, Neil Agnew, Ray Denson, J. Ramsay, and Marg Call-
beck began conducting LSD experiments and expanding Hoffer and Osmond’s catalog
of experiences.
12. SAB, A207, X, Subject Files, 17. LSD, 1966–70, Abram Hoffer to Ray Denson, 13
May 1968. These volunteers were later featured in a report of this first trial: Hoffer and
Agnew, “Nicotinic Acid,” 1–16.
Hermann Rorschach developed the Rorschach test in 1921 for clinical psychology
and psychoanalytical psychiatry. It involved a series of ink blots (originally based on ten
ink blots), which patients or subjects interpreted. During the 1940s and 1950s, clini-
cians frequently used the Rorschach Test, but by the 1960s its overly “subjective” nature
no longer appealed to the medical community. For further information on the history of
the Rorschach test, see Hegarty, “Homosexual Signs and Heterosexual Silences,” 400–
423; and Klopfer, “Short History of Projective Techniques,” 60–65.
13. Hoffer and Agnew, “Nicotinic Acid,” 3. They knew that the liver processed other
drugs and did not want to antagonize underlying liver problems.
14. SAB, A207, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 1.b. Humphry
Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 21 July 1953, 2.
15. Centre for Addiction and Mental Health Archives, Arthur Allen file, Osmond,
“On Being Mad,” 2. See also Osmond and Smythies, “Schizophrenia,” 309–15.
16. SAB, A207, AII, 41, “Volunteers,” 1957–58, “Consent Form.”
17. SAB, A207, AII, 1 and AII, 2, “Subject Files.”
18. SAB, A207, AII, 2, Hallucinogens—Normals—A-C, 1957–63, “Volunteer Re-
port.”
19. Blewett, Duncan, psychologist, interview with author, 28 June 2003, Gabriola
Island, British Columbia.
20. SAB, A207, AII, 1 and AII, 2, “Subject Files,” “Report of a Volunteer,” n.d.
21. SAB, A207, AII, 1 and AII, 2, “Subject Files,” 5 May 1966, “Report of a Volunteer”
[nurse].
22. SAB, A207, AII, 1, “Hallucinogens, Normals, 1957–63,” “Report of a Volunteer.”
23. SAB, A207, AII, 2, “Hallucinogens, Normals, 1957–63, “Report of a Volunteer.”
24. SAB, A207, Box 37, 233-A. LSD, Gustav R. Schmiege, “The Current Status of LSD
as a Therapeutic Tool,” typescript, 5.
25. Sommer, “Psychology in the Wilderness,” 26–29; Weckowicz, Sommer, and
Hall, “Distance Constancy,” 1174–82; Sommer, “Letter-Writing,” 514–17.
26. Sommer and Osmond, “Autobiographies,” 648.
27. Ibid., 649–50. In The Snake Pit, Mary Jane Ward told the fictitious story of Vir-
ginia Cunningham, a character who was hospitalized after a ner vous breakdown. The
novel describes the illness and its treatment through the eyes of the patient. The book
was an award-winning film directed by Anatole Livak (1948). In The Shutter of Snow,
Emily Holmes Coleman depicts the life of a woman Martha Gail (loosely based on the
author’s own experiences) who suffered from postpartum depression after the birth of
her son. The story of Gail’s experiences in a state institution is a terrifying and gloomy
depiction of psychiatric treatment.
28. Sommer and Osmond, “Autobiographies,” 652, 660. They used the patients’ de-
scriptions or diagnoses to categorize them according to type of illness, which gave them
an overrepresentation of alcoholics and paranoids with relatively fewer nonparanoid
schizophrenics.
29. Ibid., 658.
30. This was not the first time that patients were given LSD as part of the Saskatch-
ewan research program (a point discussed in greater detail in chapter 3), but by the late
1950s the evidence emerging from the study of autobiographies made further compari-
son necessary. The way in which “recovery” was determined is not clear. It seems to be
based on a minimum of two elements: the patient had been released from the hospital
and declared “recovered” by his or her doctor, and the patient had to convince the presid-
ing experimenter that he or she felt “recovered” (free from symptoms of illness for a rea-
sonable duration) before participating in the trial. Consent forms accompanied each
record.
31. SAB, A207, AII, 5. Hallucinogens—Patients’ Notes “Clinical Files,” and A207,
AII, 61–2 “ ‘30’ Project Follow Up.” (This section is a synthesis of various reports, but in
an effort to maintain subjects’ privacy and anonymity I did not use specific excerpts.)
32. SAB, A207, XVIII, Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, 3.b. 1956. Abram
Hoffer to Humphry Osmond, 14 November 1956.
33. SAB, A207, Hoffer III, 194.a., Correspondence, McKerracher, Abram Hoffer to
D. G. McKerracher, 24 May 1955. Part of the training to become a psychoanalyst was for
the therapist him- or herself to go through psychoanalytical treatment.
34. SAB, A207, XVIII, 11.a., Hoffer and Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, Hum-
phry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 10 January 1962, 6, 3.
35. SAB, A207, XVIII, 23.a., Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, Abram Hof-
fer to Humphry Osmond, 10 May 1966, 2; emphasis in original.
36. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.c. Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, Humphry
Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 30 March 1967.
37. For further discussion of these perspectives on schizophrenia, see Gelman, Med-
icating Schizophrenia; Jablensky, “Conflict of the Nosologists,” 95–100; and Heinrichs,
“Historical Origins of Schizophrenia,” 349–63.
38. For further reading on the evolution of clinical trials, see Rees and Healy, “The
Place of Clinical Trials,” 1–20; Lilienfeld, “Ceteris Paribus,” 1–18; and Marks, The Progress
of Experiment. See Marks, “Trust and Mistrust,” 343–44.
39. Each of the men mentioned was an important figure in the history of psychiatry
and was associated with developing a par tic u lar therapy. Ugo Cerletti developed electro-
convulsive therapy in the 1930s in Rome. Manfred Sakel was an Austrian medical gradu-
ate who developed insulin- coma therapy. Ladislas von Meduna developed the first “true”
convulsive therapy using a drug called Metrazol (cardiazol). Henri Laborit was associ-
ated with the development of the first antipsychotic medication (chlorpromazine), which
he first used in Paris in 1951 to calm patients before they underwent surgery. See
Shorter, A History of Psychiatry, 246–72.
SAB, A207, XVIII, 11.a., Hoffer and Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, Abram Hof-
fer to Humphry Osmond, 15 January 1962.
40. Osmond, “Inspiration and Method,” 1–4.
41. SAB, A207, XVIII, 11.a., Hoffer- Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, Humphry
Osmond, “Methodology, Martha or Delilah; or Methodology, Handmaiden or Taskmis-
tress; or Who Shall Control the Controllers,” 3. This editorial was later published as
“Methodology: Handmaiden or Taskmistress” in the Canadian Medical Association Jour-
nal.
42. Hoffer and Osmond, “Double Blind Clinical Trials,” 221–27.
43. SAB, A207, III, 229.b. Goldstein correspondence, L. Goldstein to L. Goodman,
30 January 1964. SAB, A207, III, 163, Kepner Correspondence, Abram Hoffer to C. H.
Kepner, 16 February 1962.
44. SAB, A207, XVIII, 2.b. Hoffer and Osmond Correspondence, 1951–92, John
Smythies to Humphry Osmond, 11 February 1955, 2. Ibid.
45. SAB, A207, III, 56. Carl Neuberg Society, Abram Hoffer to Gustav Martin, 14
July 1966.
46. Some authors felt that few of the studies exercised any great care when studying
LSD, leading to a lack of controls, insufficient measures, or poorly constructed criteria
for measur ing changes, few safeguards, and limited clinical follow up. See Grinspoon
and Bakalar, “The Psychedelic Drug Therapies,” 275–83.
Three • Highs and Lows
1. For information on the medicalization of behavior see Conrad and Schneider, De-
viance and Medicalization; Valverde, “ ‘Slavery from Within,’ ” 251–68; Dowbiggin, “Delu-
sional Diagnosis?” 37–69; and Room, “The Cultural Framing of Addiction,” 221–34.
The term “problem drinking” is used by Heather and Ian Robertson in Problem Drink-
ing. For information on the history of Alcoholics Anonymous see Cheever, My Name Is
Bill; Kurtz, Not- God; Tracy and Acker, Altering American Consciousness; Peele, Diseasing
of America; and White, Slaying the Dragon.
2. Page, “The Origins of Alcohol Studies,” 1098. See also Roizen, “How Does the
Nation’s ‘Alcohol Problem’ Change?” 61–87; and Heather and Robertson, Problem
Drinking, chapter 2, where the authors discuss how the ideas underpinning the use of
different authorities on drunkenness have remained relatively consistent over two
centuries, while the embodiment of that authority has shifted from temperance re-
formers, to Alcoholics Anonymous groups, to psychiatrists, politicians, women’s
groups, and so on. In The Politics of Alcoholism, Wiener elaborates on the concept of
“arena building” with relation to defining social and legal responsibility surrounding
alcoholism.
3. Thom and Berridge, “ ‘Special Units for Common Problems,’ ” 91.
4. Siegler, Osmond, and Newell, “Models of Alcoholism,” 545–59. I am grateful to
Robin Room for drawing my attention to this article.
5. Patient treated for alcoholism, interview with author, 22 June 2003, Calgary, Al-
berta. This individual reported that he has not had an alcoholic drink since the treatment
over forty years ago. The patient’s name is withheld to preserve anonymity.
6. For example, the provincial bureau on alcoholism in Saskatchewan demonstrated
support for the local LSD treatments.
7. University of Regina Archives, RG 91–87, Box 4, Duncan Blewett, “The Need for
Research and Training Programs on the Use of the Psychedelic Drugs,” typescript, n.d.,
1–2.
8. SAB, A207, AII, Box 75, Osmond, “Notes on the Drinking Society,” 1967.
9. Ibid., 1.
10. Ibid., 2–3; SAB, A207, AII, 108, J. F. A. Calder, “Spiritual Factors in the Recovery
of Alcoholism,” 8; Bacon, “Alcoholics Do Not Drink,” 55–64, 1–10.
11. Hoffer, “A Program for the Treatment of Alcoholism,” 343–406.
12. Osmond and others studied the doses through self- experimentation before ad-
ministering them to patients. See Clancy, Hoffer, Lucy, Osmond, Smythies, and Stefa-
niuk, “Design and Planning in Psychiatric Research,” 147–53.
13. SAB, A207, AII, Box 75, Humphry Osmond, “Notes on the Drinking Society,”
(1967). For their published results see Chwelos, Blewett, Smith, and Hoffer, “Use of
D-Lysergic Diethylamide,” 577–90; and Hoffer, “A Program for the Treatment of Alco-
holism,” 343–406.
14. Hoffer, “Treatment of Alcoholism Using LSD,” 19.
15. SAB, A207, AII, 108, J. F. A. Calder, “Experience with New Drug,” typescript, 18
and 19 May 1960.
16. SAB, A207, XVIII, 25.a., Humphry Osmond, “The Experiential World Inventory—
Normative Version,” typescript, October 1966, 1–2.
17. Osmond, “Inspiration and Method,” 9.
18. SAB, A207, III, 229.a., Humphry Osmond, “untitled,” n.d., 1.
19. Hoffer, “A Program for the Treatment of Alcoholism,” 343–406.
20. Smith, “A New Adjunct to the Treatment of Alcoholism,” 406–17. Smith worked
closely with the Bureau of Alcoholism to select volunteers for the program. Many volun-
teers had already sought help through Alcoholics Anonymous.
21. SAB, A207, III, 229.a., “Inventory,” 2.
22. Researchers in British Columbia who followed a similar course of treatment
used even larger doses, ranging from 400 mcg to 1500 mcg. For a discussion of these
doses see Smart, Storm, Baker, Solursh, Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, 91. However, re-
searchers maintained that these doses remained minute when compared with other
pharmaceutical drugs. For example, one tablet of aspirin is 300,000 mcg; an average
dose of LSD ranges between 200 mcg and 400 mcg. See Abramson, Use of LSD, vii.
U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration reports from 2002 claim that current street
doses range from 20 to 80 mcg of LSD per unit. The idea for the stimulating environ-
ment came from Al Hubbard who worked at the Hollywood Hospital in New Westmin-
ster, British Columbia. Hubbard was well known to Hoffer, Osmond, and others.
23. Smith, “A New Adjunct to the Treatment of Alcoholism,” 406–17. Before this
study was conducted, more research into appropriate doses found that alcoholics had a
higher tolerance for psychedelic drugs than normals. Throughout these studies, re-
searchers in Saskatchewan worked closely with local branches of Alcoholics Anony-
mous, both to recruit volunteers and to improve treatments and follow-ups. Bill W.
himself, founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, became an advocate of Hoffer and Osmond’s
therapies. See Kurtz, Not- God, 138–39.
24. Smith, “A New Adjunct to the Treatment of Alcoholism,” 411, 408. Follow-up peri-
ods varied widely. In ideal cases, patients were monitored for a minimum of two years after
treatment. Some patients moved out of the community and did not remain in contact with
either the research team or Alcoholics Anonymous, which made extended follow-ups prob-
lematic. Some patients maintained contact for several years beyond the two-year period.
25. Alcoholics Anonymous, xviii, 571. See also William W. “The Society of Alcoholics
Anonymous,” 259–62. 41. The most commonly cited alternative treatment was Antabuse,
which when administered produced extreme nausea when individuals drank even small
amounts of alcohol. It acted as a form of aversion therapy. See Conrad and Schneider, Devi-
ance and Medicalization, 74; and Barrera, Osinski, Davidoff, “Use of Antabuse,” 263–67.
26. Step two reads: “For our Group purpose there is but one ultimate authority—a
loving God as He may express Himself in our Group conscience,” Alcoholics Anonymous,
564–65. The quote is from p. 12.
27. Lobdell, This Strange Illness, 250. Lobdell explains that Bill W. was particularly
interested in observing the effects the drug would have on deflating ego.
28. SAB, A207, AII, 108, correspondence with Calder, speech from Calder, “Spirit-
ual Factors in the Recovery of Alcoholism,” June 1960, 1, 3.
29. SAB, A207, XVII, Clinical Files, LSD Trials. Patients’ names withheld to main-
tain confidentiality.
30. Ibid. Patients’ names withheld to maintain confidentiality.
31. Patients’ perspectives come from an examination of patients’ reports and let-
ters contained in SAB, A207, AII, V. Hallucinogens—“Patients.” The majority of the
males involved in the study suffered from chronic alcoholism, whereas most of the
women were treated for depression or anxiety related disorders. For examples of schol-
arship that deal with the gendered nature of treatment in psychiatry, see Rotskoff, Love
on the Rocks; McClellan, “Marty Mann’s Crusade,” 84–100; Showalter, The Female
Malady; Carson, “Domestic Discontents,” 171–92; and Elizabeth Lunbeck, The Psychi-
atric Persuasion.
32. SAB, A207, AII, V. Hallucinogens—Patients “Subject’s Report,” anonymous
subject report, 1.
33. SAB, A207, AII, V. Hallucinogens—Patients “Subject’s Report,” nurse’s report, 2.
34. Ibid., n.p. The analogous biochemical research suggested that niacin terminated
the LSD reaction because it slowed adrenaline production. This method was recom-
mended in Blewett and Chwelos, Handbook, chapter 7, “Equipment.” The handbook is
now available online, www.maps.org/ritesofpassage/lsdhandbook.html.
35. SAB, A207, AII, V. Hallucinogens—Patients, “Subject’s Report,” subject’s report,
n.p.
36. University of Regina Archives, 88–29, Duncan Blewett Papers, Writings of
Blewett, D-Lysergic Acid Diethylamide in the Treatment of Alcoholism, 1962, authors
Nick Chwelos, Duncan Blewett, Colin M. Smith, and Abram Hoffer, 2.
37. Ibid., 3.
38. The “set and setting” referred to both the physical and the emotional environ-
ment in which the trial took place. Duncan Blewett, psychologist, interview with author,
28 June 2003, Gabriola Island, British Columbia; Abram Hoffer, psychiatrist, interview
with author, 27 June 2003, Victoria, British Columbia; and Sven Jensen, psychiatrist,
interview with author, 27 June 2003, Victoria, British Columbia.
39. SAB, A207, Box 37, 233-A. LSD, Gustav R. Schmiege, “The Current Status of LSD
as a Therapeutic Tool,” typescript, 5.
40. Blewett and Chwelos, Handbook.
41. University of Regina Archives, 88–29, Duncan Blewett Papers, Writings of Dun-
can Blewett, “Interim Report on the Therapeutic Use of LSD,” (1958), 4–5. The same list
is in Blewett and Chwelos, Handbook, chapter 2.
42. Ramsay, Jensen, and Sommer, “Values in Alcoholics,” 443–48.
43. Jensen, “A Treatment Program for Alcoholics,” 4–5. Earlier attempts to measure
the efficacy of LSD treatment in blind trials were abandoned after determining that reac-
tions to the drug were too powerful to go undetected. The group therapy involved regular
psychotherapy sessions in a group setting; the other methods involved one-on-one psycho-
therapy with other psychiatrists, or milieu therapy, which involved in-patient treatment
and a combination of one-on-one psychotherapy sessions with Jensen, in combination
with institutionalization.
44. Sven Jensen, psychiatrist, interview with author, 27 June 2003, Victoria, British
Columbia; and patient treated with LSD for alcoholism, interview with author, 28 June
2003, Victoria, British Columbia, name withheld to maintain confidentiality.
45. SAB, A207, AIII, Box 75, “Canadian Temperance Foundation,” address given by
T. C. Douglas to Canadian Temperance Foundation Convention, December 1959.
46. Blewett, “New Drug Attacks Roots of Alcoholism,” 1.
47. For example, see “Alcoholism in Home, Challenge to Wife,” 4.
48. SAB, R-33.1, T. C. Douglas Papers, XVII, 656 (17–22), Bureau on Alcoholism,
“Bureau Bulletins,” 1959–61.
49. SAB, A207, III, 103, “Canadian Temperance Foundation,” Hoffer to Reverend
John Linton, 9 December 1959.
50. Potoroka was executive director of the Alcohol Education Ser vice in Manitoba,
which later changed its name to the Addictions Foundation of Manitoba, for twenty-two
years. In 1980, the Addiction Foundation of Manitoba honored him by naming its li-
brary the William Potoroka Memorial Library.
51. SAB, A207, II, A. 4, Correspondence with W. Potoroka, Report of the Executive
Director, 15 June 1961, to the Alcohol Education Ser vice (Manitoba).
52. SAB, A207, AIII, Box 75, “Canadian Temperance Foundation,” address given by
T. C. Douglas to Canadian Temperance Foundation Convention, December 1959.
53. Smart, Storm, Baker, and Solursh, “A Controlled Study of Lysergide,” 351–53; Smart,
Storm, Baker, and Solursh, “A Controlled Trial of Lysergide,” 469–82; and Kurland,
Savage, Pahnke, Grof, and Olsson, “Pharmakopsychiatrie Neuro-psychopharmakologie,”
83–94. Kurland and his colleagues describe the method used by Smart et al. as part of
their attempts to isolate the drug reaction.
54. SAB, A207, III, 176, Larsen (correspondence), Abram Hoffer to Larsen, 18 June
1964 (North Dakota Commission on Alcoholism).
55. Hertz, “Observations and Impressions,” 103–8; Hausner and Dolezal, “Follow-up
Studies,” 87–95; Hollister, Shelton, and Krieger, “A Controlled Comparison,” 58–63; and
Denson and Sydiaha, “A Controlled Study of LSD Treatment,” 443–45.
56. MacLean, Macdonald, Byrne, and Hubbard, “The Use of LSD-25,” 34–45.
57. SAB, A207, III, 195.a., J. Ross MacLean, J. Ross MacLean to Mrs. Anne H. Becks,
copy to Abram Hoffer, 26 October 1967; emphasis in original.
58. Connolly, “LSD in the Treatment of Chronic Alcoholism,” 32–33; Kurland, Sav-
age, Pahnke, Grof, and Olsson, “Pharmakopsychiatrie Neuro-psychopharmakologie,”
83–94.
Four • Keeping Tabs on Science and Spirituality
1. SAB, 1101 Hoffer Papers, II, 119, Peyote, M. MacLeod for R. F. Battle, Superintend-
ent, Stony/Sarcee Indian Agency to Mr. G. H. Gooderham, Regional Supervisor of In-
dian Agencies, 2 February 1953.
2. Stanislov Grof later published some of his work on this topic, for example, Grof,
The Adventure of Self-Discovery, and Grof, The Cosmic Game.
3. SAB, 1101, II, 119, “Peyote and the Native American Church of the United States,”
Indian Affairs: Newsletter of the American Indian Fund and the Association on American
Indian Affairs, Inc. no. 41A, supplement, n.d. [circa 1961].
4. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote-article, Laura Bergquist, “Peyote: The Strange Church of
Cactus Eaters,” Look Magazine, n.d.
5. Klüver, Mescal.
6. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote-article, Laura Bergquist, “Peyote: The Strange Church of
Cactus Eaters,” Look Magazine, n.d., 36.
7. Ibid., 36–41; SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote. Frank Takes Gun to Abram Hoffer, 14 April
1960.
8. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote, P. E. Moore, Director of Indian and Northern Health
Ser vices, to Abram Hoffer, 11 May 1956, 2. In this letter Moore cites two separate coro-
ners’ reports indicating that peyote use directly contributed to several deaths.
9. Ibid., 1.
10. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote, Ernest Nicoline to Abram Hoffer, 1 May 1956; SAB,
1101, II, 119, Peyote, Ernest Nicoline to Abram Hoffer, 29 February 1956; and SAB, 1101,
II, 119, Peyote, Abram Hoffer to Ernest Nicoline, 5 March 1956.
11. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote, Abram Hoffer to Carlyle King, 28 March 1956.
12. The four who attended the ceremony were Humphry Osmond, psychiatrist and
superintendent of the Saskatchewan Mental Hospital, Weyburn; Abram Hoffer, psychia-
trist, biochemist, and director of research at the Psychiatric Ser vices Branch at the Uni-
versity of Saskatchewan; Duncan Blewett, chief psychologist of the Psychiatric Ser vices
Branch for the provincial health department; and Teddy Weckowicz, psychiatrist. Mau-
rice Demay, psychiatric superintendent of the Saskatchewan Mental Hospital, North
Battleford, was originally invited to participate but could not attend due a scheduling
conflict.
The most comprehensive account of that par tic u lar ceremony was written by Abram
Hoffer’s sister Fannie Kahan after collecting the views of each of the white participants
and conducting additional research into the history of peyotism. Kahan’s manuscript
“Peyote: The Native American Church of North America” was rejected by several pub-
lishers, but is housed at SAB, A207, XIII, 13.a., Peyote.
SAB, 1101, II, 119, Doug Sagi, “White Men Witness Indian Peyote Rites,” Saskatoon
Star-Phoenix, 13 October 1956, 14–16.
13. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Doug Sagi, “White Men Witness Indian Peyote Rites,” Saska-
toon Star-Phoenix, 13 October 1956, 14.
14. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote, Duncan Blewett to the Editor, Moose Jaw Times-Herald,
18 October 1956, 1–2.
15. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote, Humphry Osmond to Frank Takes Gun, 18 October
1956, 2.
16. SAB, 1101, II, 119, Peyote. Notarized statement by Humphry Osmond, n.d. [circa
April 1956], 3.
17. These job titles appear on his letterhead and are referred to in the correspond-
ence. He eventually adopted the title “Dr.” after claiming to have acquired a PhD, though
collegial recollections of “Dr.” Hubbard suggest that he paid for rather than earned his
doctorate. See, for example: SAB, A207, Hoffer Collection, III, 109, Hubbard Corre-
spondence. Abram Hoffer to A. M. Hubbard, 8 July 1955; A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 15
February 1956. In an undated letter to Hoffer from Long Beach California, Hubbard
signed it “Captain P.H.D.—at last.” At the receipt of his PhD, Hoffer congratulated Hub-
bard and stated: “Congratulations on having received your PhD. I know you will agree
with me when I say that the absence or presence of PhD means little regarding the ability
of an individual to investigate nature’s phenomena. It is, however, a recognition that the
individual has gone through a prescribed training in scientific investigation and which
also provides him with a certain amount of society approval which permits him to carry
on his work more readily.” SAB, A207, III, 109, Hoffer to Hubbard, 9 January 1956.
Crockford, “B.C.’s Acid Flashback.”
18. Blewett made these comments in an interview that was included in the docu-
mentary film The Psychedelic Pioneers.
19. The earliest record of correspondence between Hubbard and Hoffer appears in
SAB, A207, III, 109, Al Hubbard to Abram Hoffer, 14 May 1955. The quote is from SAB,
A207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 19 July 1955.
20. SAB, A207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 14 May 1955; SAB, A207, III, 109,
A. Hoffer to A. Hubbard, 14 March 1955.
21. SAB, A207, III, 109, A. Hoffer to A. Hubbard, 24 October 1955.
22. SAB, A207, III, 109, report on mescaline. 29 May 1954. 2–19.
23. Blewett and Chwelos, Handbook.
24. SAB, A207, III, 109, series of letters between A. Hoffer and A. Hubbard, 8 July,
29 September, and 24 October 1955.
25. SAB, A207, AII.14, Kyoshi Izumi, “LSD and Architectural Design,” 3–4. This
concept was more fully explored when a group of individuals collaborated in the design-
ing of a new mental health facility based on explorations of space and territory in combi-
nation with insights gleaned from the psychedelic studies. Architect Kyoshi Izumi,
along with Humphry Osmond and psychologist Robert Sommer, studied the provincial
mental hospital in Weyburn while under the influence of LSD. He then combined his
experience with psychological studies of space, provided primarily by Robert Sommer,
to develop a new model for mental health institutions.
26. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hoffer to A. Hubbard, 11 December 1957. See also Duncan
C. Blewett and Nick Chwelos, Handbook for the Therapeutic Use of Lysergic Acid
Diethylamide-25, Individual and Group Procedures (1959).
27. SAB, 207, III, 109, Nick Chwelos to A. Hubbard, 4 August 1958.
28. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hoffer to A. Hubbard, 8 June 1956; and A. Hubbard to A.
Hoffer, 17 February 1959. The Los Angeles group remains undefined in the correspond-
ence, but likely refers to a group of LSD-research enthusiasts who produced their own
version of the drug and made it available for sale to other like-minded investigators dur-
ing this period.
29. SAB, 207, III, 109. Several letters between Hoffer and Hubbard indicate that
Hoffer was distributing supplies to Hubbard directly. For example, see A. Hoffer to A.
Hubbard, 22 December 1958, where Hoffer writes: “I am sending you twenty four vials
of the LSD which you sent to me. We could only make up the twenty four. This prepara-
tion has not been sterilized so should not be used for intravenous studies.” See also A.
Hubbard to A. Hoffer, n.d. [circa Jan. 1956], where Hubbard wrote: “Thank you for help-
ing me with the mescaline, incidently [sic] have you any LSD to spare?”
30. It is unclear whether either, both, or neither of these sources had any direct rela-
tionship with Sandoz. Hoffer tested the products in his lab and found them both to be
credible sources but could not determine whether they were the same quality as the
Sandoz-produced LSD. See SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hoffer to A. Hubbard, 16 December
1958.
31. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hoffer to A. Hubbard, 27 June 1958; A. Hubbard to A. Hof-
fer, 20 May 1959; and A. Hoffer to A. Hubbard, 25 May 1959.
32. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 17 September 1959; and A. Hoffer to
A. Hubbard, 19 October 1959.
33. The names appear, along with their credentials and affiliations, on the letterhead.
Over the next few years new members were added to this list, including Sidney Cohen
(assistant clinical professor of medicine, University of California, assistant chief of med-
ical ser vices, Neuropsychiatric Hospital, Veteran’s Administration, Los Angeles), Henry
K. Puharich, (director of research, laboratory of experimental electrobiology, Round Ta-
ble Foundation, Glen Cove, Maine), and Louis Cholden (research consultant of psychia-
try, University of California)
34. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 15 February 1956. As Hubbard ex-
plains in his letter, mescaline was outlawed in California and Hubbard met with the
Head of the Narcotic Enforcement for the State of California, Mr. Creighton, to ensure
continued clearances for research purposes.
35. SAB, 207, 109, Duncan Blewett to Gerald Heard, 6 January 1958.
36. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 9 December 1956. In this letter
Hubbard relayed preliminary results from Sidney Cohen’s experiments in California
with Hoffer.
37. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 9 December 1956.
38. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 12 March 1959.
39. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 11 October 1957.
40. SAB, A207, IV, 25. Miscellaneous Correspondence, Sta-Sze, Myron Stolaroff to
Abram Hoffer, 30 August 1959.
41. SAB, 207, III, 109, A. Hubbard to A. Hoffer, 27 November 1957, 2.
42. SAB, A207, IV, 25. Miscellaneous Correspondence, Sta-Sze. Abram Hoffer to
Myron Stolaroff, 6 October 1959.
Five • Acid Panic
1. McMaster University Archives, Pierre Berton papers, Box 386, envelopes 50, 63,
76, 1967, “Under Attack,” subject: LSD.
2. Allan Kamin, “TV’ing (Or—Is a Prune a Vegetable?),” Varsity, 29 September

1967.
3. “LSD for Ratings,” Globe and Mail, 11 November 1966, 33. A televised clip from
this program was included in the documentary film The Psychedelic Pioneers; Canada,
Debates of the House of Commons, 11 July 1966, Mr. Peters, 7511; “Marijuana, LSD on
W5 Censured by Diefenbaker,” Globe and Mail, 14 February 1967, 12.
4. Tyler May, Homeward Bound. Tyler May argues that the 1950s domestic culture
was an aberration from the status quo rather than a return to normalcy; Stanley Cohen,
Folk Devils and Moral Panics, 196. Readily absent are interpretations of this period
through the lenses of race, class, ethnicity, or gender. Nonetheless, it is not my intention
to examine the truth of these images, but rather to understand how LSD fit into contem-
porary stereotypes.
5. I use the term acid to emphasize the nonmedical use of the drug.
6. Marijuana is also important but has a different history and was already associated
with deviance earlier in the twentieth century. See Polsky, Hustlers, Beats, and Others;
Jonnes, Hep- Cats, Narcs, and Pipe Dreams; W. Novak, High Culture; and Musto, The
American Disease.
7. Owram, Born at the Right Time, 4–5.
8. There is a significant body of literature that examines this cohort and its identity
or identities. Kenneth Keniston initially argued that the 1960s youth represented a
unique manifestation of generational conflict. Keniston, The Uncommitted. He later re-
vised his position and argued instead that the youth culture was an amalgam of subcul-
tures, one of which was defined, in part, by its identification with drug use (Keniston,
“Heads and Seekers,” 97–112). Marxist scholars have also defined this group in class
terms. For example, see Friedenberg, “The Generation Gap,” and Bettelheim, “The
Problem of Generations.” Others defined the cohort in terms of its potential political
strength, thus characterizing the group in collective terms as “the counter culture” (Ros-
zak, The Making of a Counter Culture). Some historians have adopted a life cycle approach
that considers the history of a period as experienced by a par tic u lar age cohort. Doug
Owram’s examination of the baby-boom generation tells a history of the 1950s and
1960s in Canada through the experiences of its postwar youth cohort, thereby returning
to an identification of the postwar youth as a more cohesive unit (Owram, Born at the
Right Time).
9. On prescription drugs, see Healy, Anti-Depressant Era, 258–59; Healy, “Good Sci-
ence or Good Business?” 73–75. Healy discusses the rising rates of psychotropic medica-
tions as a result of aggressive marketing schemes and expanding categories of disorder.
See also, Vos, “The ‘Dutch Drugstore,’ ” 65. Vos traces the increase in pharmaceutical
use through the professionalization of pharmacists and the increasing demands for
over-the- counter remedies in the Netherlands. LSD was still considered a legal substance
until 1966, though its use was restricted to clinical settings. On clinical trials, see Hill,
Haertzen, Wolbach, Miner, “The Addiction Research Centre Inventory,” 167–83; Siva
Sankar, Phipps, Sankar, “Effect of LSD,” 93–97; Takagi, Yamamoto, Takaori, Ogiu, “The
Effect of LSD and Reserpine,” 119–34; and Killam, “Studies of LSD and Chlorpro-
mazine,” 35–45. On prescription statistics, see Lauer, “Social Movements,” 319; Tone,
Siegel Watkins Medicating Modern America.. On oral contraceptives, see Watkins, On the
Pill, 34. On housewives taking prescription medicines, see Tone, “Listening to the Past:
History, Psychiatry and Anxiety,” 373–80. “The problem that has no name” is a phrase
coined by Betty Friedan, in her famous feminist critique of American society The Femi-
nine Mystique (New York: Norton, 1963). The phrase refers to the discontent and disillu-
sionment faced by white middle- class women who felt their personal lives were restricted
as they were trapped in a life of domesticity; Friedan, “The Problem That Has No Name,”
461–67.
10. Elliot and Chambers, Prozac as a Way of Life, 2. For examples of increased rates of
drug use, see Clow, “ ‘An Illness of Nine Months’ Duration,’ ” 57; and Goode, Drugs,
123–24. It is perhaps ironic that this same group of people may also bear the brunt of
concerns over rising health care costs associated with a need for expensive pharmaceuti-
cals for seniors, as the leading edge of the baby-boom generation now enters retire-
ment.
11. Rotskoff, Love on the Rocks, chapter 2. This is not to say that male drinking did
not provoke other social concerns, but unlike the association of youth with drug
use male drinkers did not become the “other” that “normal” society defined itself
against.
12. Usually the fear now is that patients with mental disorders are not taking their
drugs. Nonetheless, other case studies suggest that drug use and group identity have
been similarly linked in several cases. For example see Carstairs, “Innocent Addicts,”
145–62, and Carstairs, “Deporting ‘Ah Sin,’ ” 65–88.
13. Marijuana was also commonly associated with the youth culture and a large body
of literature deals with this subject. It arguably entered mainstream American culture
through association with black jazz musicians. Goode, Drugs; W. Novak, High Culture;
Polsky, Hustlers, Beats, and Others; Jonnes, Hep- Cats, Narcs, and Pipe Dreams.
14. Goode, Drugs, 123–24. Records from the Senate debates in Canada refer to evi-
dence that more than one hundred thousand professional people in the United States
had taken LSD. See Canada, Debates of the Senate, 25 April 1967, 1824.
15. Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, first took LSD as a student
volunteer for the CIA’s MK-ULTRA program. Student volunteer, interview with author,
16 July 2003, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Name withheld to maintain confidentiality. At
the University of Saskatchewan student volunteers were offered five dollars compensa-
tion.
16. Stevens, Storming Heaven, 122. Timothy Leary has been the subject of a number
of popu lar studies. For further details on Leary’s role in the history of LSD, see Stevens,
Storming Heaven, and D. Solomon, LSD.
17. For a description of Leary’s approach to psychedelics see Leary, Metzner, and Al-
pert, The Psychedelic Experience; Leary, Flashbacks; Leary, Confessions of a Hope Fiend;
and Jonnes, Hep- Cats, Narcs, and Pipe Dreams, 222.
18. Stevens, Storming Heaven, 145. Stevens adds that Beat poet Allen Ginsberg even
attempted to phone Kennedy with this foreign policy advice. He was unable to reach the
president.
19. The Psychedelic Review, publishing period, 1961–69. Greenfield, Timothy Leary.
20. SAB, A207, XVIII 14.b. 1 July–31 December 1963, Abram Hoffer to Humphry
Osmond, 4 November 1963; SAB, A207, XVIII, 25.b. Hoffer Osmond correspondence,
Humphry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 8 December 1966.
21. SAB, A207, XVIII, 25.b. Hoffer Osmond correspondence, Humphry Osmond to
Timothy Leary, 10 December 1966; emphasis in original.
22. SAB, A207, XVIII, 22.a., Humphry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, Re: your earlier
predictions, 12 March 1966 in response to: “Former Harvard Teacher Sent to Prison on
Marijuana Charges,” New York Times, 12 March 1966, n.p.; SAB, A207, XVIII, 24.c.
Humphry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, Dr. Aaronson, Dr. El Melegi, T. T. Paterson, Dr.
Cheek, Dr. Man, M. Siegler, Dr. Al Hubbard and Mrs. Wynn, 21 September 1966; in re-
sponse to “Dr. Leary Starts New ‘Religion’ with ‘Sacramental’ Use of LSD,” New York
Times, 20 September 1966.
23. “Small Black Market Reported in LSD” News Call Bulletin—San Francisco, 4
January 1963, n.p.; Powell, Anarchist’s Cookbook. Although this book was not published
until 1971 it seems likely that recipes for LSD were available as early as 1963. It is, of
course, very difficult to locate written sources to confirm this belief, but through a com-
bination of newspaper reports and anonymous oral interviews it is clear that black
market, kitchen, “bathtub” or “basement” LSD became available in the early part of
1963. In fine print, this guidebook warned that some seeds might be coated with a sub-
stance that, when subjected to the process of turning them into LSD, made the end
product poisonous.
24. SAB, A207, XVIII, 22.b. Humphry Osmond to “Al,” 25 April 1966. Hofmann’s
discussion with Osmond is recounted in a letter warning the National Institute of
Health about these conditions. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.b. Humphry Osmond to Dr.
Jonathan Cole, Chief, Psychopharmacology Ser vice Centre, National Institute of Health,
9 February 1967.
25. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.b. Humphry Osmond to Dr. Jonathan Cole, Chief, Psy-
chopharmacology Ser vice Centre, National Institute of Health, 9 February 1967.
26. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.a., Humphry Osmond to Dr. Frances Cheek, re: Social
and Other consequences of substances alleged to be LSD 25, etc., 2 February 1967.
27. SAB, A207, XVIII, 20.b. Humphry Osmond to Dr. Bryant Wedge, 22 December
1965. Osmond also refers here to the “anti-universities” but seems to imply a situation
that he sees as paradoxical. Universities are intended to promote higher learning and
groom individuals for participation in political legal and decision-making. Ironically, the
campus culture of the 1960s suggested that youth were openly engaged in activities
aimed at dismantling decision-making infrastructure. In the 1967 Senate debates sev-
eral Canadian senators similarly commented on the state of university education in the
1960s. They referred to the “Cubehead Revolution.” Sen. Orville H. Phillips described
the situation: “Sometimes they [university students] seem to be either more brilliant
than we were when we were in universities or they appear to have much more free time.
We had to study during university life, but students now seem to be free to look for more
varied experiences. As Senator Thorvaldson has said, it has become fashionable in the
press and on TV to glamorize the life of an LSD addict as one of leisure and as the ideal
life to follow” (Canada, Debates of the Senate, 25 April 1967, 1824).
28. “2 Drugs Expected to Aid Mind Study: Chemicals Induce Mental Ills in Volun-
teers During Tests, Psychiatrists Hear,” New York Times, 11 May 1951, 40; “Reds’ Psychia-
try for P.O.W.s Bared: Army Expert Tells Conference How the Chinese Succeeded in
Confusing Captives,” New York Times, 8 May 1954, 5; “Research in Mental Illness Has
Paid Striking Dividend: More Funds for Study and Greater Use of Advances Seen as So-
lution to Problem,” New York Times, 31 October 1954, 82.
29. “U.S. Health Units Cover Vast Field: 7 National Institutes Attract Scientists by
the Finest Research Facilities,” New York Times, 29 May 1955, 31; “Science Notes: Colors
from Black-and-White Images: Schizophrenia Tests Simulated Color—Insanity
Chemical—Stroke Study—Tranquilizer,” New York Times, 1 December 1957, 237; “Clams
and Insanity: Experiments May Shed Light on Schizophrenia,” New York Times, 3 March
1957, 177; “Rats Befuddled in Plasma Test: Show Abnormal Symptoms after Blood Injec-
tions from Mentally Ill,” New York Times, 26 October 1958, 128; “The Mind on the Wing:
Exploring Inner Space, Personal Experiences under LSD,” New York Times, 14 May 1961,
BR7; and “Biochemical Detective Findings Lead to Gains in Mental Health,” New York
Times, 21 May 1961, 82.
30. “Books and Authors: Editors Appointed, Psychotherapy with New Drug, Life of
an Inventor,” New York Times, 17 February 1962, 17; “Books Today: Fiction General,” New
York Times, 15 May 1962, 36; “Through Fantasy to Serenity,” New York Times, 12 August
1962, 37; “Doctors Reported a Black Market in Drug that causes Delusions,” New York
Times, 14 July 1962, 47; “Drug Used in Mental Ills is Withdrawn in Canada,” New York
Times, 21 October 1962, 30.
31. “Drug Converted Confirmed Alcoholic to Honour Student, Psychiatrists Told,”
Globe and Mail, 9 May 1962, 8.
32. For example, see “Banned Drug Released for Research,” Globe and Mail, 10 Janu-
ary 1963, 3.
33. “Amateur Chemist Seized over Pills: Student Accused of Making Hallucinogens
in Home,” New York Times, 12 November 1965, 12; “Ousted Lecturer Jailed in Laredo on
Drug Charge,” New York Times, 24 December 1965, 15. Leary was the “ousted lecturer”
in question. “Mind Drugs Help Architect’s Work: Use of LSD Aids Designer of Mental
Hospitals,” New York Times, 9 May 1965, 61.
34. “Mind Drugs Helped Alcoholic to Quit Habit, Scientists Report,” New York Times,
11 May 1965, 68. Given that by this time thousands of scientists had experimented with
LSD, it is telling that the American press reported on the work being done in Saskatch-
ewan. “Harvard Study Sees Benefit in the Use of Mind Drugs,” New York Times, 15 May
1965, 64.
35. For example, see “Ottawa Seeks Closer Control on LSD Sales,” Globe and Mail, 5
February 1966, 4; RCMP Start LSD Probe to halt illegal trafficking,” Globe and Mail, 11
February 1966, 35; “The Big Turn- on Goes to College,” Globe and Mail, 21 March 1966,
21; “LSD Subject Arraigned in Murder: DA Convenes Talks in New York on Hallucina-
tory Drugs,” Globe and Mail, 15 April 1966, 16; and “LSD Fascinating to Collegians,
Alarms U.S. Parents and Police,” Globe and Mail, 25 April 1966, 4.
36. See New York Times, Globe and Mail, Toronto Star, 1965–69.
37. Canada, Commission of Inquiry, final report, appendix on hallucinogens.
38. Braden, “LSD and the Press,” 400–418.

39. “Police Fear Child Swallowed LSD: Brooklyn Girl of 5 Admitted to a Hospital af-
ter She Suffers Convulsions,” New York Times, 7 April 1966, 41. Days later a follow-up
story reported that the child was in good health. “A Slaying Suspect Tells of LSD Spree:
Medical Student Charged in Mother-in-Law’s Death,” New York Times, 12 April 1966, 1.
40. “BC Police, Parents Fear Spread of LSD in Schools,” Globe and Mail, 8 March
1967, 29; “LSD Most Dangerous, N.Y. Doctors Report,” Globe and Mail, 30 March 1966,
10; “LSD-Use Charged with Killing Teacher,” Globe and Mail, 12 April 1966, 2; “LSD,
Fascinating to Collegians, Alarms U.S. Parents, Police,” Globe and Mail, 25 April 1966,
4; “Sampled LSD, Youth Plunges from Viaduct,” Globe and Mail, 20 March 1967, 1; “LSD
Use near Epidemic in California, Physician Believes,” Globe and Mail, 30 March 1967,
W06; “Taking a Trip to Deathville,” Ottawa Citizen, 21 March 1967; and “Six Students
Blinded on LSD Trip in Sun,” Globe and Mail, 13 January 1968, 11.
41. For example, various songs performed by the Beatles, Bob Dylan, the Grateful
Dead, and so on. Poetry from Beatnik authors, including Allen Ginsberg. LSD also in-
spired an entire genre of artwork known as psychedelic art. The Regina Five (Ron
Bloore, Ted Godwin, Ken Lochhead, Art McKay, and Doug Morton) were a set of artists
inspired by psychedelic drug use in Saskatchewan. The five painters received interna-
tional acclaim in the 1960s for their work. In 1961, the National Gallery of Canada held
an exhibition of their work titled “Five Painters from Regina,” University of Regina,
News Release, “Regina Five Installation Planned.”
42. For further elaboration of this concept, see SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.a., memoran-
dum from Humphry Osmond to Dr. Moneim El Meligi, Re: The Exploration and Consid-
eration of Euphoria, 25 October 1965.
43. Though Osmond did not elaborate on this point in the letter, other letters and
publications lead me to conclude that he believed the youth were often more curious
than adults and would naturally be drawn to psychedelic experimentation. Because of
the large cohort of youth in North America, this experimentation would be highly visi-
ble.
44. SAB, A207, XVIII, 20.a., Humphry Osmond to “Al,” 4 November 1965, 1, 3.
45. “LSD as Safe as Aspirin: Hoffer,” Varsity, 25 September 1967, 2; “UC Plans Festi-
val on Mass Insanity,” Varsity, 18 October 1967.
46. SAB, A207, III, 106. Dr. K. E. Godfrey, 1964–69 correspondence, K. E. Godfrey
to Abram Hoffer, 6 September 1967.
47. SAB, A207, II, David Orlikow, correspondence, A. Hoffer to David Orlikow, 7
April 1967, 1.
48. Jenkins, Synthetic Panics.
Six • “The Perfect Contraband”
1. Clow, “ ‘An Illness of Nine Months’ Duration,’ ” 47.

2. Daemmrich, “A Tale of Two Experts,” 138. Daemmrich states that more than four
thousand of these children were born in Germany where thalidomide had been the most
popu lar sleeping pill. In the United States seventeen babies were born with deformities
caused by this drug. Daemmrich obtained these American figures from U.S. Food and
Drug Administration files (1962).
3. Canada, Debates of the House of Commons, 1962, statement by Mr. H. C. Harley
(Halton), 979–80. Debates in the House of Commons in October 1962 over proposed
legislation restricting the use of LSD centered on the government’s inaction regarding
thalidomide and prompted lengthy debates over how to handle LSD more swiftly.
4. Canada, Debates of the House of Commons, vol. 1, 26 October 1962, 974–93; de-
bates of the House of Commons, vol. 1, 12 November 1962, 1522–27; debates of the
House of Commons, 1962, vol. 1, 12 November 1962, 1537–52; debates of the House of
Commons, vol. 1, 13 November 1962, 1562–72 [bill no. C-3]. Support from the medical
community came from C. A. Morrell (FDD director, Ottawa), Abram Hoffer (Saskatoon),
David Archibald (director of Addictions Research Foundation, Toronto), J. K. W. Fergu-
son (Connaught Laboratories and federal medical advisory board member), J. F. A. Cal-
der (director of Saskatchewan government’s Bureau of Alcoholism), Duncan Blewett
(psychology professor, University of Saskatchewan, Regina). “Drug Acclaimed by Re-
searchers May Be Banned,” Globe and Mail, 20 October 1962, 1; “Ban on Drug ‘Halts
Some Cures,’ ” Toronto Daily Star, 21 December 1962, sec. 3.
5. For an explanation of the theories on model psychoses developed by Osmond et
al., see chapter 2. Canada, Acts of the Parliament of Canada, Public General Acts, Stat-
utes of Canada, 1962–63, vol. 1, chap. 15, “An Act to Amend the Food and Drugs Act,”
assented to 20 December 1962, 119–20. This amendment placed LSD on schedule H of
the Food and Drugs Act, alongside thalidomide. For media coverage on this change, see
“Banned Drug Released for Research,” Globe and Mail, 10 January 1963, 3; “Drug Used
in Mental Ills Is Withdrawn in Canada,” New York Times, 21 October 1962, 30; “Will Ot-
tawa Choke This Cure to Death?” Financial Post (Toronto), 5 January 1963, n.p.
6. For additional information on this process and other contemporary drug policies
see Erickson, Illicit Drugs in Canada; Erickson, Cannabis Criminals; and Jonnes, Hep-
Cats, Narcs, and Pipe Dreams. For an excellent collection of essays addressing shifting
boundaries between licit and illicit drugs and the subsequent criminalization that oc-
curs, see Tracy and Acker, Altering American Consciousness, esp. Hickman, “The Double
Meaning of Addiction,” 182–202, and Speaker, “Demons for the Twentieth Century,”
203–24.
7. On opium, see Berridge, Opium and the People, and Courtwright, Dark Paradise;
on drug use and criminal behavior, see Spillane, Cocaine; Rudy, “Unmaking Manly
Smokes,” 95–114; and Acker, Creating the American Junkie.
8. See Orr, Panic Diaries, 226; Healy, Anti-Depressant Era, 103.
9. McFadyen, “Thalidomide in America,” 79–93; Timmermans and Leiter, “The
Redemption of Thalidomide,” 41–71; and Daemmrich, “A Tale of Two Experts,” 137–58.
10. Healy, “Good Science or Good Business?” 72–79.
11. Mogar, “LSD and the Psychedelic Ethic,” 56–58.
12. S. Novak, “LSD before Leary,” 88.
13. Sidney Cohen, “Lysergic Acid Diethylamide,” 30–40.
14. Ibid., 33, 36. In the case of the successful suicide, a woman had been given the
drug without her knowledge. “The devastating effects of a completely inexplicable psy-
chic disruption were seemingly too much for this person to endure and she took her
life,” ibid., 33. See also Lapolla and Nash, “Two Suicide Attempts,” 920–22; Cohen, Leon-
ard, Farberow, and Sheidman, “Tranquilizers and Suicide,” 312–21.
15. Sidney Cohen, “Lysergic Acid Diethylamide,” 38.
16. Abram Hoffer, “D-Lysergic Acid Diethylamide,” 183–255. S. Novak, “LSD before
Leary,” 87–110, argues that Sidney Cohen’s 1960 article in fact represented his concerns
for its safety and should have been interpreted as a warning rather than an endorse-
ment.
17. Cohen and Ditman, “Complications Associated with Lysergic Acid Diethyla-
mide,” 162.
18. For example see “Amphetamines, Barbiturates, LSD and Cannabis,” 1–75; Berg,
“Non-Medical Use of Dangerous Drugs,” 777–834; Johnson, Elmore, and Adams, “The
‘Trip’ of a Two Year Old,” 424–25; Barnes, “Uses and Abuses of LSD,” 170–73; Paton,
“Drug Dependence,” 247–54; Rossi, “Pharmacologic Effects of Drugs,” 161–70; Cohen,
Marinello, Back, “Chromosomal Damage in Human Leukocytes,” 1417–19; Keeler and
Reifler, “Suicide during an LSD Reaction,” 884–85; Materson and Barrett- Connor, “LSD
‘Mainlining,’ ” 1126–27; and Bowers, Chipman, Schwartz, and Dann, “Dynamics of
Psychedelic Drug Abuse,” 560–66.
19. This situation has begun to change; see Check, “The Ups and Downs of Ecstasy,”
126–28.
20. “Doctor Sees Evidence LSD Harms Offspring,” Globe and Mail, 17 March 1967,
11; “Neurologist Calls LSD Dangerous,” Globe and Mail, 29 January 1968, 13; and “LSD
Study Shows It May Be Mutagen,” Globe and Mail, 5 May 1970, 12.
21. Cohen, Hirschhorn, and Frosch, “In Vivo and in Vitro Chromosomal Damage,”
1043–49.
22. SAB, A207, III, A. Box 53, Charles C. Dahlberg, Ruth Mechaneck, and Stanley
Feldstien, “LSD Research and Adverse Publicity,” (1967), 2, 4.
23. Ibid., 5.
24. Ibid., 6.
25. Mogar, “Research in Psychedelic Drug Therapy,” 500.
26. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.b. Humphry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 6 March 1967.
27. Ibid., 2; SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.b. Humphry Osmond to Frances Cheek, re: Differ-
ent Kinds of Psychedelic People, 5 March 1967, 3.
28. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.c. Humphry Osmond to Abram Hoffer, 16 March 1967, 3.
29. Catherine Carstairs reached a similar conclusion in her study of drug regulation
concerning opium use, particularly on Canada’s West Coast where opium use in the
1930s was considered part of Chinese- Canadian culture. See Carstairs, Jailed for Posses-
sion.
30. Canada, Debates of the House of Commons, 1966, “Manufacture of Drug
LSD-25,” 5 October 1966, 8328. Upon questioning, MacEachen confirmed that Sandoz
Pharmaceuticals remained the sole manufacturer of the drug and that legal distribution
in Canada operated under the control of Sandoz (Canada) Ltd., in Dorval, Quebec. All
experimental research with the drug required approval from the minister of national
health and welfare before supplies could be received. See also University of Regina
Archives, Duncan Blewett, Box 5, Articles: “Small Black Market Reported in LSD,” News
Call Bulletin—San Francisco, 4 January 1963, n.p.
31. Canada, Acts of the Parliament of Canada, Public General Acts. Statutes of Can-
ada, 1962–63, vol. 1, chap. 15, “An Act to Amend the Food and Drugs Act,” assented to 20
December 1962, 119–20. This amendment placed LSD on Schedule H of the Food and
Drugs Act, alongside thalidomide.
32. University of Regina Archives, Duncan C. Blewett, 91–87, Box 3, “Legislation,”
Allan MacEachen (Minister of Health) to D. C. Blewett, 3 April 1967. I thank Christo-
pher Rutty for his expertise about Connaught and for sharing information with me for
this section.
33. Canada, Debates of the House of Commons, 13 May 1966, 5100. M.P. Frank
Howard (Skeena) questioned National Health and Welfare Minister MacEachen on
the state of legislation concerning LSD following a Globe and Mail article indicating
that the first arrest for possession of LSD took place only that week. Howard regis-
tered his concern that the Canadian government needed to address the issue of drug
trafficking straight away. MacEachen told him that he and the minister of justice were
looking into the matter. He later responded publicly and promised to increase polic-
ing measures. MacEachen’s statement reported in Globe and Mail, 17 May 1966, 7;
“MacEachen Plans Police Measures to Combat Smuggling of LSD,” Globe and Mail, 16
May 1966, 1.
34. “Ottawa Hears LSD Crackdown Due Today,” Toronto Daily Star, 16 May 1968, 2;
“Ottawa Seeks Closer Control of LSD Sales,” Globe and Mail, 5 February 1966, 4; “RCMP
Start LSD Probe to Halt Illegal Trafficking,” Globe and Mail, 11 February 1966, 35;
“Curbs on LSD Being Studied, Commons Told,” Globe and Mail, 17 May 1966, 44. For a
detailed historical analysis, see Martel, Not This Time.
35. Canada, Debates of the House of Commons, 6 May 1966, 4792. M.P. Howard
Johnston (Okanagan-Revelstoke) first raised the issue, referring to the increased public-
ity surrounding its dangerous use; Canada, Debates of the House of Commons, 1966,
vol. 5, “Statement on Control of Drug LSD” by Honourable A. J. MacEachen, 16 May
1966, 5156–57; Canada, Debates of the House of Commons, 16 May 1966, 5157, William
Dean Howe (Hamilton South).
36. Canada, Debates of the House of Commons, 21 November 1966, 10157–58,
Howard Johnston (Okanagan-Revelstoke), 52.
37. Canada, Debates of the Senate of Canada, Session 1966–67, vol. 2, Food and
Drugs Act: “Bill to Amend—Report of Committee Adopted,” Hartland de M. Molson, 16
April 1967, 1845–48.
38. Statements by Sens. Malcolm Hollett, A. Hamilton McDonald, and Joseph A.
Sullivan refereed to this issue. Canada, Debates of the Senate of Canada, Session
1966–67, vol. 2, Food and Drugs Act: “Bill to Amend—Report of Committee Adopted,”
26 April 1967, 1846–47.
39. Canada, Debates of the Senate of Canada, Session 1966–67, vol. 2, Food and
Drugs Act: “Bill to Amend—Second Reading,” 25 April 1967, 1823.
40. “3 U.S. Senate Groups Look into the Use of LSD,” Globe and Mail, 16 May 1966,
4; “End of Black Market for LSD Is Predicted,” Globe and Mail, 24 May 1966, 4.
41. SAB, A207, 195.a., J. Ross MacLean Correspondence, J. R. McLean to Miss Susan
Wright, 2 August 1967, 1; “Sole U.S. Distributor Surrenders Its Right to Handle Drug
LSD,” Globe and Mail, 14 April 1966, 1.
42. SAB, A207, XVIII, 23.b. Humphry Osmond to the Honourable Robert F.
Kennedy, 24 May 1966, 4; emphasis in original. I could find no record of a response
from Senator Kennedy.
43. Ibid., 2.
44. SAB, A207, 195.a., J. Ross MacLean Correspondence, Flyer “Published by the
Vancouver School Board: Dangers of LSD (Lysergic Acid Diethylamide),” 10 March
1967.
45. SAB, A207, 195 a., J. Ross MacLean Correspondence, “News Release, ‘L.S.D.’
Dangers,’ ” 23 March 1967.
46. University of Regina Archives, Duncan Blewett records, 91–87, Box 3, “Legisla-
tion,” D. C. Blewett to T. C. Douglas, 26 August 1966. University of Regina Archives,
Duncan C. Blewett, 91–87, Box 3, “Legislation,” includes a number of letters he sent to
federal government officials in 1966–67, some on behalf of the Canadian Psychedelic
Institute, of which he was secretary.
47. University of Regina Archives, Duncan Blewett records, 91–87, Box 3, “Legisla-
tion,” Allan MacEachen (minister of health) to D. C. Blewett, 3 April 1967; University of
Regina Archives, Duncan C. Blewett, 88–29, Box 3 “Others’ Writings on Narcotics Leg-
islation,” correspondence D. G. Poole, c. 1967.
48. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.d., transcript of interview, Humphry Osmond with “the
Alchemist,” 30 April 1967, 4–5.
49. Ibid., 6.
50. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.d., Abram Hoffer to Michael Tuchner, British Broadcast-
ing Corporation, n.d.
51. Canada, Commission of Inquiry, interim and final reports; Sheila Gormley, “The
Road Show.”
52. Martel, “Que faire?” 109–13.
53. The U.S. investigation included drugs such as nicotine, caffeine, and alcohol in
its study of the “drug problem.” See Brecher, Licit and Illicit Drugs.
54. University of Regina Archives, Duncan C. Blewett, 91–87, Box 3, “Commission
of Inquiry,” Statement by Gerald Le Dain, Chairman, Commission of Inquiry into the
Non-Medical Use of Drugs at the first public hearing in Winnipeg, 13 November 1969.
The members of this commission were Gerald Le Dain, Marie Andrée Bertand, Ian L.
Campbell, Heinz E. Lehmann, and J. Peter Stein. For more information on the Le Dain
Commission and the resultant policy recommendations see Martel, Not This Time.
55. “New Controls on LSD under Study: Pennell,” Globe and Mail, 21 March 1967, 4;
“UN Groups Disagree over Dangers of LSD,” Globe and Mail, 8 January 1968, 10; United
Nations, “Resolutions,” secs. 1–3 deal with LSD restrictions. The UN resolutions allowed
for medical and scientific research but recommended additional controls and restricted
manufacture, distribution, and all other uses.
56. Canada, Acts of Parliament of Canada, Statutes of Canada, 1968–69, vols. 17–18,
chap. 41 “Food and Drugs, Narcotic Control, Criminal Code, amendments,” 991–95.
57. SAB, A207, XVIII, 26.a., Humphry Osmond to Dr. Frances Cheek, 2 February
1967.
58. SAB, A207, XVIII, 12.a., Abram Hoffer to Humphry Osmond, n.d.
59. Denson, “Complications of Therapy with Lysergide,” 57.
Conclusion
1. Feldmar, “Entheogens and Psychotherapy”; Oscapella quoted in L. Solomon, “U.S.

Border Patrol Bars Canadian Psychotherapist,” 4.
2. Nutt, King, Saulsbury, and Blakemore, “Development of a Rational Scale,” 1047.
3. Ibid., 1048.
4. Ibid., 1050. In sequential order of assessed risk, the substances are heroin, co-
caine, barbiturates, street methadone, alcohol, ketamine, benzodiazapines, ampheta-
mine, tobacco, buprenorphine, cannabis, solvents, 4-MTA, LSD, methylphenidate,
anabolic steroids, GHB, ecstasy, akyl nitrates, and khat.
5. Check, “The Ups and Downs of Ecstasy,” 126–28; D. Bennett, “Dr. Ecstasy: Alex-
ander Shulgin,” New York Times Magazine 30 (2005): 36.
6. Shulgin and Shulgin, PiHKAL, and Shulgin and Shulgin, TiHKAL.
7. Brown, “Researchers Explore New Visions for Hallucinogens,” A12; see Sewell,
Halpern, and Pope, “Response of Cluster Headache,” 1920–22; Moreno et al., “Safety,
Tolerability, and Efficacy of Psilocybin,” 1735–40.
8. Some LSD studies continued in other jurisdictions, namely in the Republic of
Czechoslovakia and in the Netherlands; see Crockford, “LSD in Prague,” and Snelders,
“The LSD Therapy Career of Jan Bastiaans,” 18–20.
9. Email correspondence with Beckley Foundation, news release, www.beckley
foundation.org, 11 April 2007.
10. See www.maps.org/.
11. For examples of Sandison’s work, see Sandison, Spencer, and Whitelaw, “The
Therapeutic Value of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide,” 491–507; Sandison and Whitelaw,
“Further Studies,” 332–43; and Sandison, “A Role for Psychedelics in Psychiatry,” 483.
12. See Sessa, “Can Psychedelics Have a Role?” 457–58.
13. Hobbs, “The Medical History of Psychedelic Drugs,” 35–36.
14. Blewett also referred to the fact that the Saskatchewan Liquor Board Commission
had a monopoly on the sale of alcohol. If a similar scheme were employed to sell drugs
such as LSD and marijuana, the government could earn money from taxes and would
retain a monopoly on the sale of these items, which would help ensure quality control.
bibliography
Archives
Centre for Addiction and Mental Health Archives, Toronto, Ontario.

McMaster University Archives, Hamilton, Ontario.
National Archives of Canada, Ottawa, Ontario.
———. RG 28. I 165, Canadian Psychiatric Association.
———. RG 29. National Health and Welfare, Vol. 321, File 435-7-11. “Report on Hospital
Facilities for Psychiatric Patients in Canada.” Typescript, 1946.
———. RG 29. National Health and Welfare, Vol. 321, File 435-7-11–143. “Mental Health
in Canada: The Facts.” March 1952.
Saskatchewan Archives Board. All files from A207 pertain to the Abram Hoffer collec-
tion in Saskatoon. Files from the SAB Regina location, are specified. Some informa-
tion has been removed by the author in compliance with confidentiality agreement.
Saskatchewan Legislative Records. Legislative Journals, 1945–47, 1949; Budget Speech,
1946, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
University of Regina Archives. Regina, Saskatchewan.
Secondary Sources
Abraham, H. D., A. M. Aldridge, and P. Gogia. “The Psychopharmacology of Hallucino-

gens.” Neuropsychopharmacology 14, no. 4 (1996): 285–98.
Abramson, H. A., ed. The Use of LSD in Psychotherapy and Alcoholism. Indianapolis:
Bobbs-Merrill, 1967.
Abramson, H. A., and A. Rolo. “Lysergic Acid Diethylamide (LSD-25) Antagonists: Chlor-
promazine.” Journal of Neuropsychiatry 1 (1960): 307–10.
Acker, Caroline Jean. Creating the American Junkie: Addiction Research in the Classic Era
of Narcotic Control. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002.
Alcoholics Anonymous: The Story of How Many Thousands of Men and Women Have Recov-
ered from Alcoholism. New York: Alcoholics Anonymous Publ., 1955.
“Alcoholism in Home, Challenge to Wife.” Saskatchewan Alcoholism Bureau Bulletin
(1959).
172 Bibliography
Alexander, Franz G., and Sheldon T. Selesnick. The History of Psychiatry: An Evaluation
of Psychiatric Thought and Practice from Prehistoric Times to the Present. New York:
Harper and Row, 1966.
Allen, Arthur. “The Last Asylum: Weyburn, Saskatchewan.” On Site Review (2000).
“Amphetamines, Barbiturates, LSD, and Cannabis: Their Use and Misuse.” Reports on
Public Health and Medical Subjects 124 (1970): 1–75.
Anderson, Edward F. Peyote: The Divine Cactus. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996.
Andrews, Jonathan. “R. D. Laing in Scotland: Facts and Fictions of the ‘Rumpus Room’
and Interpersonal Psychiatry.” In Cultures of Psychiatry and Mental Health Care in
Postwar Britain and the Netherlands, ed. Marijke Gijswijt-Hofstra and Roy Porter,
121–50. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998.
Angell, Marcia. The Truth about the Drug Companies: How They Deceive Us and What to
Do about It. Random House: New York, 2004.
Appelbaum, Paul. Informed Consent: Legal Theory and Clinical Practice. Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2001.
Arons, B. S. “Working in the ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’: An Essay on Recent Changes in Mental
Health Law and the Changing Role of Psychiatrists in Relation to Patient and Soci-
ety.” University of Toledo Law Review 9, no. 1 (1977): 73–93.
Bacon, Seldon. “Alcoholics Do Not Drink.” Annals of American Academy of Political and
Social Science 315 (1958): 55–64.
Badgley, Robin F., and Samuel Wolfe. Doctors’ Strike: Medical Care and Conflict in Sas-
katchewan. Toronto: Macmillan of Canada, 1967.
Barber, Patrick. “Chemical Revolutionaries: Saskatchewan’s Psychedelic Drug Experi-
ments and the Theories of Drs. Abram Hoffer, Humphry Osmond, and Duncan
Blewett.” Master’s thesis, University of Regina, 2005.
Barnes, D. T. “The Uses and Abuses of LSD and Other Hallucinogenic Drugs.” Austral-
ian and New Zealand Journal of Psychiatry 4, no. 1 (1970): 170–73.
Barrera, S. Eugene, Walter A. Osinski, and Eugene Davidoff. “The Use of Antabuse
(Tetraethylthiuramdisulphide) in Chronic Alcoholics (July 1950).” American Journal
of Psychiatry 151, no. 6 (1994) sesquicentennial supp.: 263–67.
Berg, D. F. “The Non-Medical Use of Dangerous Drugs in the United States: A Compre-
hensive Overview.” International Journal of the Addictions 5, no. 4 (1970) : 777–834.
Beringer, Karl. Der Meskalinrausch [The Mescaline Intoxication]. Berlin: Verlag Julius
Springer, 1927.
Berridge, Virginia. Opium and the People: Opiate Use and Drug Control Policy in
Nineteenth- and Early Twentieth- Century England. London: Free Association, 1999.
Bettelheim, Bruno. “The Problem of Generations.” In The Cult of Youth in Middle- Class
America. ed. Richard L. Rapson, 78–81. Lexington, Mass.: D. C. Heath, 1971.
Bisbort, Alan. Rhino’s Psychedelic Trip. San Francisco: Miller Freeman, 2000.
Blewett, Duncan. “New Drug Attacks Roots of Alcoholism.” Saskatchewan Alcoholism
Bureau Bulletin 2, no. 4 (1961).
Blewett, Duncan C., and Nick Chwelos. Handbook for the Therapeutic Use of Lysergic Acid
Diethylamide-25, Individual and Group Procedures, N.p.: n.p., 1959. Available online at
www.maps.org/ritesofpassage/lsdhandbook.html.
Bibliography 173
Bloom, Alexander, and Wini Breines, eds. “Takin’ It to the Streets”: A Sixties Reader.
Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995.
Bowers, M., A. Chipman, A. Schwartz, and O. T. Dann. “Dynamics of Psychedelic Drug
Abuse: A Clinical Study.” Archives of General Psychiatry 16, no. 5 (1967): 560–66.
Boyers, Robert, and Robert Orrill, eds. R. D. Laing and Anti-Psychiatry. New York: Harper
and Row, 1971.
Braden, William. “LSD and the Press.” In Psychedelics: The Uses and Implications of Hal-
lucinogenic Drugs, ed. Bernard Aaronson and Humphry Osmond, 400–418. Garden
City, N.Y.: Anchor, 1970.
Braslow, Joel. Mental Ills and Bodily Cures: Psychiatric Treatment in the First Half of the
Century. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997.
Brecher, Edward M. Licit and Illicit Drugs: The Consumers Union Report on Narcotics,
Stimulants, Depressants, Inhalants, Hallucinogens, and Marijuana, including Caffeine,
Nicotine, and Alcohol. Boston: Little, Brown, 1972.
Brennan, Bill. Regina: An Illustrated History. Toronto: Lorimer, 1989.
Broadfoot, Barry. The Ten Lost Years, 1929–1939: Memories of Canadians who Survived the
Depression. Toronto: Doubleday Canada, 1973.
Brown, Susan. “Researchers Explore New Visions for Hallucinogens.” Chronicle of Higher
Education (December 8, 2006): A12–A 15.
Brown, Thomas E. “Dance of the Dialectic? Some Reflections (Polemic and Otherwise)
on the Present State of Nineteenth- Century Asylum Studies.” Canadian Bulletin of
Medical History 11, no. 2 (1994): 267–95.
Bruun, Kettil. “Finland: The Non-Medical Approach.” In 29th International Congress of
Alcoholism and Drug Dependence, ed. L. G. Kiloh and D. S. Bell, 545–59. Sydney, Aus-
tralia: Butterworths, 1971.
Bryden, P. E. Planners and Politicians: Liberal Politics and Social Policy, 1957–1968. Mon-
treal: McGill- Queen’s University Press, 1997.
Buckman, J. “Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.” British Medical Journal 550 (1966): 302–3.
Buechler, Mark. “The Infinite Goof: Psychedelic Drugs and American Fiction of the
1960s.” PhD diss., Indiana University, 1992.
Burnham, John C. Bad Habits: Drinking, Smoking, Taking Drugs, Gambling, Sexual Mis-
behavior, and Swearing in American History. New York: New York University Press,
1993.
Cameron, D. E. “Psychic Driving.” American Journal of Psychiatry 112, no. 7 (1956):
502–9.
Campbell, Robert. Demon Rum or Easy Money: Government Control of Liquor in British
Columbia from Prohibition to Privatization. Ottawa: Carleton University Press, 1991.
Canada. Acts of the Parliament of Canada. Public General Acts. Statutes of Canada,
1962–63, 1967–68.
———. Commission of Inquiry into the Non-Medical Use of Drugs. Ottawa: Queen’s Printer,
1969.
———. Debates of the House of Commons, 1962, 1966.
———. Debates of the Senate of Canada, 1966–67.
———. Royal Commission on Health Ser vices. Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1964–65.
174 Bibliography
Caplan, Paula J. They Say You’re Crazy: How the World’s Most Powerful Psychiatrists
Decide Who’s Normal. New York: Addison-Wesley, 1995.
Carson, M. “Domestic Discontents: Feminist Re- evaluations of Psychiatry, Women, and
the Family.” Canadian Review of American Studies (1992): 171–92.
Carstairs, Catherine. “Deporting ‘Ah Sin’ to Save the White Race: Moral Panic, Raciali-
zation, and the Extension of Canadian Drug Laws in the 1920s.” Canadian Bulletin of
Medical History 16, no. 1 (1999): 65–88.
———. “Innocent Addicts, Dope Fiends, and Nefarious Traffickers: Illegal Drug Use in
1920s English Canada.” Journal of Canadian Studies 33, no. 3 (1998): 145–62.
———. Jailed for Possession: Illegal Drug Use, Regulation, and Power in Canada, 1920–
1961. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006.
———. “ ‘The Most Dangerous Drug’: Images of African Americans and Cocaine Use in
the Progressive Era.” Left History 7, no. 1 (2000): 46–61.
Check, Erika. “The Ups and Downs of Ecstasy.” Nature 29 (2004): 126–28.
Cheever, Susan. My Name Is Bill: Bill Wilson—His Life and the Creation of Alcoholics
Anonymous. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2004.
Chwelos, Nick, Duncan Blewett, Colin Smith, and Abram Hoffer. “Use of D-Lysergic
Diethylamide in the Treatment of Alcoholism.” Journal for Studies on Alcohol 20
(1959): 577–90.
Clancy, John, Abram Hoffer, John Lucy, Humphry Osmond, John Smythies, and Ben
Stefaniuk. “Design and Planning in Psychiatric Research as Illustrated by the Wey-
burn Chronic Nucleotide Project.” Bulletin of the Menninger Clinic 18, no. 4 (1954):
147–53.
Clement, Wilfrid R., Lionel P. Solursh, Brian C. Chapman. “Hallucinogenic Drug Abuse:
Socio-Medical Factors.” Canadian Family Physician (April 1968): 29–33.
Clow, Barbara. “ ‘An Illness of Nine Months’ Duration’: Pregnancy and Thalidomide Use
in Canada and the United States.” In Women, Health, and Nation: Canada and the
United States since 1945, ed. Georgina Feldberg, Molly Ladd-Taylor, Alison Li, and
Kathryn McPherson, 45–66. Montreal: McGill- Queen’s University Press, 2003.
Cohen, M. M., K. Hirschhorn, and W. A. Frosch. “In Vivo and in Vitro Chromosomal
Damage Induced by LSD-25.” New England Journal of Medicine 277, no. 20 (1967):
1043–49.
Cohen, M. M., M. J. Marinello, and N. Back. “Chromosomal Damage in Human Leuko-
cytes Induced by Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.” Science 155, no. 768 (1967): 1417–19.
Cohen, Sidney. “Lysergic Acid Diethylamide: Side Effects and Complications.” Journal of
Ner vous and Mental Disease 130 (1960): 30–40.
Cohen, Sidney, and Keith S. Ditman. “Complications Associated with Lysergic Acid Di-
ethylamide (LSD-25).” Journal of the American Medical Association 181 (1962):
161–62.
Cohen, S., C. V. Leonard, N. L. Farberow, and E. S. Sheidman. “Tranquilizers and Sui-
cide in the Schizophrenic Patient.” Archives of General Psychiatry 11 (1964): 312–21.
Cohen, Stanley. Folk Dev ils and Moral Panics: The Creation of the Mods and Rockers.
Oxford: Martin Robertson, 1972.
Coleman, Emily Holmes. The Shutter of Snow. London: Routledge Press, 1930.
Bibliography 175
Collin, Joanne. “Entre Discours et Pratiques les Médecins Montréalais Face à la

Thérapeutique, 1869–1890.” In Revue d’Histoire de l’Amérique Française 53, no. 1
(1999): 61–89.
Collins, Anne. In the Sleep Room: The Story of the CIA Brainwashing Experiments in Can-
ada. Toronto: Key Porter, 1997.
Connolly, A. “LSD in the Treatment of Chronic Alcoholism.” University of Toronto Medi-
cal Journal 44, no. 1 (1966): 32–33.
Conrad, Peter, and Joseph Schneider. Deviance and Medicalization: From Badness to Sick-
ness. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1992.
Cooledge, John. “The Architectural Importance of H. H. Richardson’s Buffalo State
Hospital.” In Changing Places: Remaking Institutional Buildings, ed. Lynda H.
Schneekloth, Marcia F. Feurerstein, and Barbara A. Campagna. Fredonia, N.Y.: White
Pine, 1992.
Cooperative Commonwealth Foundation. Regina Manifesto. Calgary: Central Office of
the CCF, 1933.
Courtwright, David. Dark Paradise: Opiate Addiction in America before 1940. Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1982.
———. Forces of Habit: Drugs and the Making of the Modern World. Cambridge: Harvard
Crellin, J. K., R. R. Andersen, and J. T. H. Connor, eds. Alternative Health Care in Can-
ada: Nineteenth- and Twentieth- Century Perspectives. Toronto: Canadian Scholars
Press, 1997.
Critcher, Chas. Moral Panics and the Media. Buckingham: Open University Press, 2003.
———. “Trust Me, I’m a Doctor’: MMR and the Politics of Suspicion.” Typescript,
2004.
Crockford, Ross. “B.C.’s Acid Flashback.” Vancouver Sun, December 14, 2001.
———. “Dr. Yes and Hollyweird North.” Western Living (December 2001).
———. “LSD in Prague: A Long-term Follow-up Study.” Typescript 2006.
Crossley, Nick. “Working Utopias and Social Movements: An Investigation Using Case
Study Materials from Radical Mental Health Movements in Britain.” Sociology 33, no.
4 (1999): 809–30.
Daemmrich, Arthur. “A Tale of Two Experts: Thalidomide and Political Engagement in
the United States and West Germany.” Social History of Medicine 15, no. 1 (2002):
137–58.
Davoli, J. I. “Still Stuck in the Cuckoo’s Nest: Why Do Courts Continue to Rely on Anti-
quated Mental Illness Research?” Tennessee Law Review 69, no. 4 (2002): 987–1050.
DeGrandpre, Richard. The Cult of Pharmacology: How America Became the World’s Most
Troubled Drug Culture. Durham: Duke University Press, 2006.
Demay, Maurice. “The Beginnings of Psychiatry in Saskatchewan.” Canada’s Mental
Health 21 (1973): 18–24.
Denson, Ray. “Complications of Therapy with Lysergide.” Canadian Medical Association
Journal 101 (1969): 53–57.
———. “Lysergide in the Treatment of Neurosis (A Report of Two Cases).” Diseases of the
Ner vous System 27, no. 8 (1966): 511–14.
176 Bibliography
Denson, Ray, and D. Sydiaha. “A Controlled Study of LSD Treatment in Alcoholism and
Neurosis.” British Journal of Psychiatry 115 (1970): 443–45.
Dickinson, Harley. The Two Psychiatries: The Transformation of Psychiatric Work in Sas-
katchewan, 1905–1984. Regina: Canadian Plains Research Centre, University of Re-
gina, 1989.
Digby, Anne. Madness, Morality, and Medicine: A Study of the York Retreat, 1796–1914.
New York: Cambridge University Press, 1985.
Dooley, Chris. “ ‘They Gave Their Care, but We Gave Loving Care’: Defining and Defend-
ing the Boundaries of Skill and Craft in the Nursing Ser vice of a Manitoba Mental
Hospital during the Great Depression.” Canadian Bulletin of Medical History 21, no. 2
(2004): 229–51.
Domino, G. “Impact of the Film, ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,’ on Attitudes
Towards Mental Illness.” Psychological Reports 53, no. 1 (1983): 179–82.
Dornan, Christopher. “Science and Scientism in the Media.” Science as Culture: Radical
Science Series 7 (1989): 101–21.
Douglas, T. C. “The Problems of the Subnormal Family.” Master’s thesis, McMaster
University, 1933.
Dowbiggin, Ian. “Delusional Diagnosis? The History of Paranoia as a Disease Concept
in the Modern Era.” History of Psychiatry 11 (2000): 37–69.
Duffin, Jacalyn, and Leslie A. Falk. “Sigerist in Saskatchewan: The Quest for Balance in
Social and Technical Medicine.” Bulletin for the History of Medicine 70 (1996):
658–83.
Edginton, Barry. “The Well- Ordered Body: The Quest for Sanity through Nineteenth-
Century Asylum Architecture.” Canadian Bulletin of Medical History 11, no. 2 (1994):
375–86.
Ehrlich, Richard S. “The ‘Most Dangerous Man in America’ Captured in Afghanistan.”
Laissez Faire Times 6, no. 3 (2002): 21 January. Available online at www.geocities.
com/asia _correspondent/afghan02timothylearyct.html, accessed 8 June 2005.
Elliot, Carl, and Tod Chambers, eds. Prozac as a Way of Life. Chapel Hill: University of
North Carolina Press, 2004.
Ellis, Havelock. “Mescal, a New Artificial Paradise.” Annual Reports Smithsonian Institu-
tion (1897): 537–48.
The Encyclopedia of Saskatchewan: A Living Legacy. Regina: University of Regina, Cana-
dian Plains Research Centre, 2005.
Enning, Bram. “The Success of Jan Bastiaans.” PhD diss., University of Maastricht,
forthcoming.
Erickson, Patricia. Cannabis Criminals: The Social Effects of Punishment on Drug Users.
Toronto: Addictions Research Foundation, 1980.
———. Illicit Drugs in Canada: A Risky Business. Scarborough: Nelson Canada, 1988.
Feather, Joan. “From Concept to Reality: Formation of the Swift Current Health Region.”
Prairie Forum 16, no. 1 (1991): 59–80.
———. “Impact of the Swift Current Health Region: Experiment or Model?” Prairie
Forum 16, no. 2 (1991): 225–48.
Bibliography 177
Fee, Elizabeth, and Theodore M. Brown, eds. Making Medical History: The Life and Times
of Henry E. Sigerist. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997.
Feldberg, Georgina, Molly Ladd-Taylor, Allison Li, Kathryn McPherson, eds. Women,
Health, and Nation. Montreal: McGill- Queens’ University Press, 2003.
Feldmar, Andrew. “Entheogens and Psychotherapy,” Janus Head. Special Issue: The
Legacy of R. D. Laing, Spring 2001, online at www.janushead.org/4–1/index.cfm.
Fennell, Philip. Treatment without Consent: Law, Psychiatry, and the Treatment of Mentally
Disordered People since 1845. New York: Routledge Press, 1996.
Finkel, Alvin. The Social Credit Phenomenon in Alberta. Toronto: University of Toronto
Press, 1989.
Fischer, Roland. “Factors Involved in Drug-Produced Model Psychoses.” Journal of Men-
tal Science 100 (1954): 623.
Fischer, Roland, and Neil Agnew. “On Drug-Produced Experimental Psychoses.” Die
Naturwissenshcaften 18 (1954): 431.
Foucault, Michel. Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason.
New York: Vintage, 1965.
Forty, Adrian. “The Modern Hospital in England and France: The Social and Medical
Uses of Architecture.” In Buildings and Society: Essays on the Social Development of the
Built Environment, ed. Anthony King, 61–93. London: Routledge, 1980.
Freeman, Hugh, and James Farndale, eds. New Aspects of Mental Health Ser vices. Oxford:
Pergamon Press, 1967.
Friedan, Betty. “The Problem That Has No Name.” “Takin’ It to the Streets”: A Sixties
Reader, In ed. Alexander Bloom and Wini Breines, 461–67. Oxford: Oxford Univer-
sity Press, 1995.
Friedenberg, Edgar Z. “The Generation Gap.” In The Cult of Youth in Middle- Class
America. ed. Richard L. Rapson, 89–94. Lexington, Mass.: D. C. Heath, 1971.
Gelman, Sheldon. Medicating Schizophrenia: A History. New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers
Gevitz, Norman, ed. Other Healers: Unorthodox Medicine in America. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins University Press, 1990.
Gilmour, Don. I Swear by Apollo. Montreal: Eden Press, 1987.
Gijswijt-Hofstra, Marijke, and Roy Porter, eds. Cultures of Psychiatry and Mental Health
Care in Postwar Britain and the Netherlands. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998.
Gijswijt-Hofstra, M., G. M. Van Heteren, and E. M. Tansey, eds. Biographies of Remedies:
Drugs, Medicines, and Contraceptives in Dutch and Anglo-American Healing Cultures.
Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002.
Glenday, Daniel, Hubert Guindon, and Allan Turowetz, eds. Modernization and the
Canadian State. Toronto: Macmillan of Canada, 1978.
Goffman, Erving. Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other
Inmates. Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor, 1961.
Goode, Erich. Drugs in American Society. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1972.
Goode, Erich, and Nachman Ben-Yehuda. Moral Panics: The Social Construction of Devi-
ance. Blackwell: Cambridge, 1994.
178 Bibliography
Goodwin, Simon. Comparative Mental Health Policy: From Institutional to Community

Care. London: Sage Publications, 1997.
Gormley, Sheila. “The Road Show: The Le Dain Commission.” In Gormley, Drugs and
the Canadian Scene. Toronto: Pagurian Press, 1970.
Green, Jeremy. “Media Sensationalization and Science: The Case of the Criminal Chro-
mosome.” In Expository Science: Forms and Functions of Popularization, ed. Terry
Shinn and Richard Whitley, 139–61. Sociology of the Sciences Yearbook. Boston: D.
Reidel, 1985.
Greenfield, Richard. Timothy Leary: A Biography. Orlando: James H. Silberman Book,
Harcourt, 2006.
Griffin, J. D. M. “Cameron’s Search for a Cure.” Canadian Bulletin of Medical History
8 (1991): 121–26.
Grimshaw, Lindsay, and Roy Porter, eds. The Hospital in History. London: Routledge,
1989.
Grinspoon, Lester, and J. B. Bakalar. “Psychedelic Drugs Reconsidered.” ed. Lester Grin-
spoon and James Bakalar, chap. 3. New York: Basic, 1979.
———. “The Psychedelic Drug Therapies.” Current Psychiatric Therapies (1981) 20:
275–83.
Grob, Charles. “Psychiatric Research with Hallucinogens: What Have We Learned?” The
Heffter Review of Psychedelic Research 1 (1998): 8-20.
Grob, Gerald. “American Psychiatry: From Hospital to Community in Modern Amer-
ica.” Caduceus 12, no. 3 (1996): 49–54.
———. From Asylum to Community: Mental Health Policy in Modern America. Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1991.
———. The Mad among Us: A History of the Care of America’s Mentally Ill. Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1994.
———. “Psychiatry and Social Activism: The Politics of a Speciality in Postwar Amer-
ica.” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 60, no. 4 (1986): 477–501.
Grof, Stanislav. The Adventure of Self-Discovery: Dimensions of Consciousness and New
Perspectives in Psychotherapy and Inner Exploration. Albany: State University of New
York Press, 1988.
———. The Cosmic Game: Explorations of the Frontiers of Human Consciousness. Albany:
State University of New York Press, 1998.
Hall, Robert L. An Archaeology of the Soul: North American Indian Belief and Ritual.
Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1997.
Hall, Stuart, et al. Policing the Crisis: Mugging, the State, and Law and Order. London:
Macmillan, 1978.
Harman, W. W., R. H. McKim, R. E. Mogar, J. Fadiman, and M. J. Stolaroff. “Psychedelic
Agents in Creative Problem-Solving: A Pilot Study.” Psychological Reports 19, no. 1
(1966): 211–27.
Hausner, M., and V. Dolezal. “Follow-up Studies in Group and Individual LSD Psycho-
therapy.” (PRAHA) Active Nerve Supplement 8 (1966): 87–95.
Hayward, Rhodri. “Making English Psychiatry English: The Maudsley and the Munich
Model.” In Inspiration, Co- operation, Migration: British-American- German Relations in
Bibliography 179
Psychiatry, 1870–1945, ed. Volker Roelcke and Paul Weindling. Rochester, N.Y.: Uni-
versity of Rochester Press, forthcoming.
Healy, David. The Anti-Depressant Era. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997.
———. The Creation of Psychopharmacology. Cambridge: Harvard University Press,
2002.
———.“Good Science or Good Business?” In Prozac as a Way of Life, ed. Carl Elliot and
Tod Chambers, 72–79. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2004.
Heather, Nick, and Ian Robertson. Problem Drinking. 3rd ed. Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1997.
Heathorn, Stephen. “An English Paradise to Regain? Ebenezer Howard, the Town and
Country Planning Association, and English Ruralism.” Rural History 11, no. 1 (2000):
113–28.
Hegarty, Peter. “Homosexual Signs and Heterosexual Silences: Rorschach Research on
Male Sexuality from 1921 to 1969.” Journal of the History of Sexuality 12, no. 3 (2003):
400–423.
Heinrichs, R. Walter. “Historical Origins of Schizophrenia: Two Early Madmen and
Their Illness.” Journal of the History of Behavioral Sciences 39, no. 4 (2003): 349–63.
Hertz, Mogens. “Observations and Impressions from a Year’s Work with LSD.” Nordisk
Psykiatrik Tidsskrift 16 (1962): 103–8.
Hewitt, Kimberly Allyn. “Psychedelics and Psychosis: LSD and Changing Ideas of Men-
tal Illness, 1943–1966.” PhD diss., University of Texas at Austin, 2002.
Hickman, Timothy. “The Double Meaning of Addiction: Habitual Narcotic Use and the
Logic of Professionalizing Medical Authority in the United States, 1900–1920.” In
Altering American Consciousness: The History of Alcohol and Drug Use in the United
States, 1800–2000, ed. Sarah W. Tracy and Caroline Jean Acker, 182–202. Amherst:
University of Massachusetts Press, 2004.
Hicks, Michael. Sixties Rock: Garage, Psychedelic, and Other Satisfactions. Urbana: Uni-
versity of Illinois Press, 1999.
Hill, H. E., C. A. Haertzen, A. B. Wolbach, and E. J. Miner, “The Addiction Research
Centre Inventory: Standardization of Scales Which Evaluate the Subjective Effects of
Morphine, Amphetamine, Pentobarbital, Alcohol, LSD-25, Parahexyl, and Chlorpro-
mazine.” Psychopharmacologia 65 (1963): 167–83.
Hinks, Clarence. Mental Hygiene Survey of Saskatchewan. Regina: Thomas A. McConnica,
King’s Printer, 1945.
Hobbs, Jonathan. “The Medical History of Psychedelic Drugs.” Honors thesis, Univer-
sity of Cambridge, April 2007.
Hoffer, Abram. “D-Lysergic Acid Diethylamide (LSD): A Review of Its Present Status.”
Clinical Pharmacology and Therapeutics 39 (1965): 183–255.
———. Hoffer’s Law of Natural Nutrition. Kingston, Ont.: Quarry Press, 1996.
———. “Humphry Osmond Obituary: Doctor Who Helped Discover the Hallucinogenic
Cause of Schizophrenia.” Guardian Weekly, March 4–10, 2004, 23.
———. Manual for Treating Schizophrenia and Other Conditions Using Megavitamin
Therapy. New York: American Schizophrenia Foundation and University Books,
1967.
180 Bibliography
———. “Mechanism of Action of Nicotinic Acid and Nicotinamide in the Treatment of

Schizophrenia.” In Orthomolecular Psychiatry, ed. David Hawkins and Linus Pauling,
202–62. San Francisco: W. H. Freeman, 1973.
———. “Megavitamin Therapy: In Reply to the American Psychiatric Association Task
Force Report on Megavitamins and Orthomolecular Psychiatry.” Canadian Schizo-
phrenia Foundation, 1976.
———. Niacin Therapy in Psychiatry. Springfield, Ill.: Charles C Thomas, 1962.
———. “A Program for the Treatment of Alcoholism: LSD, Malvaria, and Nicotinic
Acid.” In The Use of LSD in Psychotherapy and Alcoholism, ed. Harold Abramson,
343–406. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1967.
———. “Treatment of Alcoholism Using LSD as the Main Variable.” Prisma (1966).
Hoffer, Abram, and Neil Agnew. “Nicotinic Acid Modified Lysergic Acid Diethylamide
Psychosis.” Journal of Mental Science 101, no. 422 (1955): 1–16.
Hoffer, Abram, and Humphry Osmond. The Chemical Basis of Chemical Psychiatry.
Springfield, Ill.: Charles C Thomas, 1960.
———. “Double Blind Clinical Trials.” Journal of Neuropsychiatry 2 (1961): 221–27.
———. “Some Psychological Consequences of Perceptual Disorder and Schizophrenia.”
International Journal of Neuropsychiatry 2, no. 1 (1966): 1–19.
Hoffer, Abram, Humphry Osmond, and John Smythies. “Schizophrenia: A New Ap-
proach II: Result of a Year’s Research.” Journal of Mental Science 100 (1954): 29.
Hoffer, Abram, and S. Parsons. “Histamine Therapy for Schizophrenia: A Follow-up
Study.” Canadian Medical Association Journal 72 (1955): 352–55.
Hoffer, Abram, and Linus Pauling. “Hardin Jones Biostatistical Analysis of Mortality
Data for Cohorts of Cancer Patients with a Large Fraction Surviving at the Termi-
nation of the Study and a Comparison of Survival Times of Cancer Patients Receiv-
ing Large Regular Oral Doses of Vitamin C and Other Nutrients with Similar
Patients Not Receiving Those Doses.” Journal of Orthomolecular Medicine 5 (1990):
143–54.
Hoffer, Abram, and M. Walker. Orthomolecular Nutrition: New Lifestyle for Super Good
Health. New Canaan, Conn,: Keats, 1978.
———. Smart Nutrients: A Guide to Nutrients That Can Prevent and Reverse Senility. Gar-
den City, N.Y.: Avery, 1994.
Hoffer, Clara, and F. H. Kahan. Land of Hope. Saskatoon: Modern Press, 1960.
Hofmann, Albert. “Discovery of D-Lysergic Acid Diethylamide LSD.” Sandoz Excerpta
12, no. 1 (1955): 1.
———. LSD: My Problem Child. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1980.
———. “Partialsynthese von Alkaloiden vom Typus des Ergobasins.” [Synthesis of
d-lysergic acid diethylamide, LSD] Helvetica Chimica Acta 26 (1943): 944–65.
Hollister, L. E. “Research Programs in the Major Mental Illnesses. II.” Hospital and Com-
munity Psychiatry 17, no. 8 (1966): 233–38.
Hollister, Leo E., Jack Shelton, and George Krieger. “A Controlled Comparison of Lyser-
gic Acid Diethylamide (LSD) and Dextroamphetamine in Alcoholics.” American Jour-
nal of Psychiatry 125, no. 10 (1969): 58–63.
Bibliography 181
Houston, C. Stuart. Steps on the Road to Medicare: How Saskatchewan Led the Way. Mon-
treal: McGill- Queen’s University Press, 2002.
Hudson, Edna, ed. The Provincial Asylum in Toronto: Refl ections on Social and Architec-
tural History. Toronto: Toronto Region Architectural Conservancy, 2000.
Huisman, Frank, and John Harley Warner, eds. Locating the History of Medicine: The
Stories and Their Meanings. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004.
Hurd, Henry M., ed. The Institutional Care of the Insane in the United States and Canada.
Vol. 4. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1917.
Huxley, Aldous. Brave New World. London: Chatto and Windus, 1932.
———. The Doors of Perception. London: Chatto and Windus, 1954.
Izumi, Kyoshi. “An Analysis for the Design of Hospital Quarters for the Neuropsychiat-
ric Patient.” Mental Hospitals (April 1957): 31–32.
———. “Some Considerations on the Art of Architecture and Art in Architecture.” Struc-
turist 2 (1961–62): 46–51.
Jablensky, Assen. “The Conflict of the Nosologists: Views on Schizophrenia and Manic
Depressive Illness in the Early Part of the 20th Century.” Schizophrenia Research 39,
no. 2 (1999): 95–100.
James, William. The Varieties of Religious Experience. New York: Modern Library, 1902.
Jenkins, Philip. Synthetic Panics: The Symbolic Politics of Designer Drugs. New York: New
York University Press, 1999.
Jensen, Sven. “A Treatment Program for Alcoholics in a Mental Hospital.” Journal for
Studies on Alcohol 23 (1962): 315–20.
Johnson, A. W. Dream No Little Dreams: A Biography of the Douglas Government of Sas-
katchewan, 1944–1961. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004.
Johnson, G. D., S. E. Elmore, and F. F. Adams Jr. “The ‘Trip’ of a Two Year Old.” South
Carolina Medical Association Journal 66, no. 11 (1970): 424–25.
Johnston, Robert D., ed. The Politics of Healing: Histories of Alternative Medicine in
Twentieth- Century North America. New York: Routledge, 2004.
Jones, Kathleen. Asylums and After: A Revised History of the Mental Health Ser vices: From
the Early 18th Century to the 1990s. London: Athlone Press, 1993.
Jonnes, Jill. Hep- Cats, Narcs, and Pipe Dreams: A History of America’s Romance with Illegal
Drugs. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996.
La Barre, Weston. The Peyote Cult. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1989.
Livingstone, D. “Some General Observations on the Usefulness of Lysergic Acid in Psy-
chiatry.” New Zealand Medical Journal 65, no. 410 (1966): 657–65.
Kahan, F. H. Brains and Bricks: The History of Yorkton Psychiatric Centre. Regina: White
Cross Publications, 1965.
Keeler, M. H., and C. B. Reifler. “Suicide during an LSD Reaction.” American Journal of
Psychiatry 123, no. 7 (1967): 884–85.
Keniston, Kenneth. “Heads and Seekers: Drugs on Campus, Counter- Cultures, and
American Society.” American Scholar 38(1968/9): 97-112.
———. The Uncommitted: Alienated Youth in American Society. New York: Harcourt,
Brace and World, 1960.
182 Bibliography
Kerr, Don, and Stan Hanson. Saskatoon: The First Half- Century. Edmonton: New West,
1982.
Killam, K. F. “Studies of LSD and Chlorpromazine.” Psychiatric Research Reports 6
(1956): 35.
King, Anthony. “Hospital Planning: Revised Thoughts on the Origin of the Pavilion
Principle in England.” Medical History 10 (1966): 360–73.
Klopfer, Walter. “The Short History of Projective Techniques.” Journal of the History of
Behavioral Sciences 9, no. 1 (1973): 60–65.
Klüver, Heinrich. Mescal: The Divine Plant and Its Psychological Effects. London: Kegan
Paul, 1928.
Kurland, A., C. Savage, W. N. Pahnke, S. Grof, and J. E. Olsson. “Pharmakopsychiatrie
Neuro-psychopharmakologie.” Advances in Theoretical and Clinical Research 4, no. 2
(1970): 83–94.
Kurtz, Ernest. Not- God: A History of Alcoholics Anonymous. Centre City, Minn.: Hazelden
Educational Ser vices, 1979.
Labounty, J. “Dr. Yes.” Western Living (2001): 43.
Lafave, Hugh, Alex Stewart, and Frederic Grunberg. “Community Care of the Mentally
Ill: Implementation of the Saskatchewan Plan.” Community Mental Health Journal 4,
no. 1 (1968): 37–45.
Laing, R. D. The Divided Self: A Study of Sanity and Madness. Chicago: Quadrangle, 1960.
Laing, R. D., and A. Esterson. Sanity, Madness, and the Family. New York: Basic, 1964.
Lapolla, A., and L. R. Nash. “Two Suicide Attempts with Chlorpromazine.” American
Journal of Psychiatry 121 (1965): 920–22.
Lauer, Robert. “Social Movements: An Interactionist Analysis.” Sociolog ical Quarterly 13
(1972): 315–28.
Laycock, David. Populism and Democratic Thought in the Canadian Prairies, 1910 to 1945.
Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1990.
Leary, Timothy. Confessions of a Hope Fiend. New York: Bantam Books, 1973.
———. Flashbacks: An Autobiography. London: Heinemann, 1983.
Leary, Timothy, Ralph Metzner, and Richard Alpert. The Psychedelic Experience: A Manual
Based on the Tibetan Book of the Dead. New Hyde Park, N.Y.: University Books, 1964.
Lee, Martin, and Bruce Shlain. Acid Dreams: The CIA, LSD, and the Sixties Rebellion.
New York: Grove Press, 1985.
Lederer, Susan. Subjected to Science: Human Experimentation before the Second World
War. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995.
Lilienfeld, Abraham M. “Ceteris Paribus: The Evolution of the Clinical Trial.” Bulletin of
the History of Medicine 56, no. 1 (1982): 1-18.
Lipset, Seymour. Agrarian Socialism: The Co- operative Commonwealth Federation in Sas-
katchewan: A Study in Political Sociology. Berkeley: University of California Press,
1950.
Lobdell, Jared C. This Strange Illness: Alcoholism and Bill W. New York: Aldine de Gruy-
ter, 2004.
Lucy, John. “Histamine Tolerance in Schizophrenia.” American Medical Association
Archives of Neurology and Psychiatry 71 (1954): 629.
Bibliography 183
Ludwig, A, J. Levine, and L. Stark, eds., LSD and Alcoholism: A Clinical Study of Treat-
ment Efficacy. Springfield, Ill.: Charles C Thomas, 1970.
Lunbeck, Elizabeth. The Psychiatric Persuasion: Knowledge, Gender, and Power in Modern
America. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994.
MacLean, J. R., D. C. Macdonald, U. P. Byrne, and A. Hubbard. “The Use of LSD-25 in
the Treatment of Alcoholism and Other Psychiatric Problems.” Journal for Studies on
Alcohol 22 (1961): 34–45.
Mancall, Peter. “ ‘I Was Addicted to Drinking Rum’: Four Centuries of Alcohol Con-
sumption in Indian Country.” In Altering American Consciousness: The History of Al-
cohol and Drug Use in the United States, 1800–2000, ed. Sarah W. Tracy and Caroline
Jean Acker, 91-107. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2004.
Mangini, Mariavittoria. “Treatment of Alcoholism Using Psychedelic Drugs: A Review
of the Program of Research.” Journal of Psychoactive Drugs 30, no. 4 (1998): 381–418.
Margoshes, Dave. Tommy Douglas: Building the New Society. Montreal: XYZ Publication,
1999.
Marks, Harry. The Progress of Experiment: Science and Therapeutic Reform in the United
States, 1900–1990. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997.
———. “Trust and Mistrust in the Marketplace: Statistics and Clinical Research, 1945–
1960.” History of Science 38, no. 3 (2000): 343–55.
Marks, John. The Search for the “Manchurian Candidate”: The CIA and Mind Control. New
York: Times Books, 1979.
Marquis, Greg. “Alcoholism and the Family in Canada.” Journal of Family History 29, no.
3 (2004): 308–27.
———. “ ‘A Reluctant Concession to Modernity’: Alcohol and Modernization in the Mar-
itimes, 1945–1980.” Acadiensis 32, no. 2 (2003): 31–59.
Martel, Marcel. Not This Time: Canadians, Public Policy, and the Marijuana Question,
1961–1975. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2006.
———. “Que faire? Le gouvernement ontarien et la consummation des drogues à des
fins récréatives, 1966–1972.” Canadian Bulletin of Medical History 20, no. 1 (2003):
109–13.
Martindale, D. “Psychosurgery: Furor over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” New Physician 26, no. 2
(1977): 22–25.
Materson, B. J., and E. Barrett- Connor. “LSD ‘Mainlining’: A New Hazard to Health.”
JAMA 2000, no. 12 (1967): 1126–27.
McClellan, Michelle. “ ‘Lady Tipplers’: Gendering the Modern Alcoholism Paradigm,
1933–1960.” In Altering American Consciousness: The History of Alcohol and Drug Use
in the United States, 1800–2000, ed. Sarah W. Tracy and Caroline Jean Acker, 267–97.
Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2004.
McFadyen, Richard. “Thalidomide in America: A Brush with Tragedy.” Clio Medica 11,
no. 2 (1976): 79–93.
McLaren, Angus. Our Own Master Race: Eugenics in Canada, 1885–1945. Toronto: Mc-
Clelland and Stewart, 1990.
McLeod, Thomas, and Ian McLeod. Tommy Douglas: The Road to Jerusalem. Edmonton:
Hurtig, 1987.
184 Bibliography
Menninger, Roy W., and John C. Nemiah, eds. American Psychiatry after World War II,
1944–1994. Washington, D.C.: American Psychiatric Press, 2000.
Micale, Mark. “Henri F. Ellenberger: The History of Psychiatry as the History of the
Unconscious.” In Discovering the History of Psychiatry, ed. Mark S. Micale and Roy
Porter, 112–34. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994.
Mitchell, S. Weir. “Remarks on the Effects of Anhelonium lewinii (the Mescal Button).”
British Medical Journal 2 (1896): 1625–29.
Mogar, Robert E. “LSD and the Psychedelic Ethic.” Per/Se: Charter Issue (1966): 56–58.
———. “Research in Psychedelic Drug Therapy: A Critical Analysis.” Research in Psycho-
therapy 3 (1968): 500–511.
Mombourquette, Duane. “An Inalienable Right: The CCF and Rapid Health Care Re-
form, 1944–1948.” Saskatchewan History 3 (1991): 101–16.
Montcrieff, Joanne. “An Investigation into the Precedents of Modern Drug Treatment in
Psychiatry.” History of Psychiatry 10 (1999): 475–90.
Moreno, F.A., et al., “Safety, Tolerability, and Efficacy of Psilocybin in 9 Patients with
Obsessive- Compulsive Disorder.” Journal of Clinical Psychiatry 67, no. 11 (2006):
1735–40.
Morton, W. L. The Progressive Party in Canada. Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
1971.
Musto, David. The American Disease: The Origins of Narcotic Control. New Haven: Yale
Nakayama, Shigeru. “The Three-Stage Development of Knowledge and the Media.” His-
toria Scientiarum 31 (1986): 101–13.
Naylor, David. Private Practice, Public Payment: Canadian Medicine and the Politics of
Health Insurance, 1911–1966. Montreal: McGill- Queen’s University Press, 1986.
Novak, Steven. “LSD before Leary: Sidney Cohen’s Critique of 1950s Psychedelic Re-
search.” Isis 88, no. 1 (1997): 87–110.
Novak, William. High Culture: Marijuana in the Lives of Americans. New York: Knopf, 1980.
Nutt, David, Leslie King, William Saulsbury, and Colin Blakemore. “Development of a
Rational Scale to Assess the Harm of Drugs of Potential Misuse.” Lancet 369 (2007):
1047–53.
Orr, Jackie. Panic Diaries: A Genealogy of Panic Disorder. Durham: Duke University
Press, 2006.
Osmond, Humphry. “Function as the Basis of Psychiatric Ward Design.” Mental Hospi-
tals (April 1957): 23–30.
———. “How to Judge a Mental Hospital.” Schizophrenia 1, no. 2 (1969): 95–99.
———. “Inspiration and Method in Schizophrenia Research.” Disorders of the Ner vous
System 16, no. 4 (1955): 1–12.
———. “On Being Mad.” Saskatchewan Psychiatric Ser vices Journal 1, no. 4 (1952).
———. “Methodology: Handmaiden or Taskmistress.” Canadian Medical Association
Journal 87 (1962): 707–8.
———. “Peyote Night.” Tomorrow Magazine 9, no. 2 (1961): 112.
———. “Rehabilitation Ser vices within the Hospital.” Mental Hospitals (May 1958):
45–47.
Bibliography 185
———. “A Review of the Clinical Effects of Psychotomimetic Agents.” Annals of the New
York Academy of Sciences 66, no. 3 (1957): 418–34.
———. “Sociopetal Building Arouses Controversy.” Mental Hospitals (May 1957): 25–32.
Osmond, Humphry, and Abram Hoffer. “On Critics and Research.” Psychosomatic Medi-
cine 21 (1959): 311–20.
———. “A Small Research in Schizophrenia.” Canadian Medical Association Journal 80
(1959): 91–94.
Osmond, Humphry, and Smythies, John. “Schizophrenia: A New Approach.” Journal of
Mental Science 98 (1952): 309–15.
Ostry, Aleck. “Prelude to Medicare: Institutional Change and Continuity in Saskatch-
ewan, 1944–1962.” Prairie Forum 20, no. 1 (1995): 87–105.
Owram, Doug. Born at the Right Time: A History of the Baby Boom Generation. Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1996.
Page, P. B. “The Origins of Alcohol Studies: E. M. Jellinek and the Documentation of the
Alcohol Research Literature.” British Journal of Addiction 83 (1988): 1095–103.
Paton, W. D. “Drug Dependence: Pharmacological and Physiological Aspects.” Journal of
the Royal College of Physicians of London 4, no. 3 (1970): 247–54.
Peele, Stanton. Diseasing of America: Addiction Treatment Out of Control. Lexington: Lex-
ington, 1989.
Penner, Norman. From Protest to Power: Social Democracy in Canada, 1900–Present. To-
ronto: J. Lorimer, 1992.
Polsky, Ned. Hustlers, Beats, and Others. Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor, 1969.
Pos, R. “LSD-25 as an Adjunct to Long-Term Psychotherapy.” Canadian Psychiatric Asso-
ciation Journal 11, no. 4 (1966): 330–42.
Powell, William. The Anarchist’s Cookbook. Fort Lee, N.J.: Barricade, 1971.
Pressman, Jack. Last Resort: Psychosurgery and the Limits of Medicine. Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1998.
Prestwich, Patricia E. “Family Strategies and Medical Power: ‘Voluntary’ Committal in a
Parisian Asylum, 1876–1914.” In The Confinement of the Insane: International Perspec-
tives, 1800–1965, ed. Roy Porter and David Wright, 76–99. Cambridge: Cambridge
Prior, Lindsay. “The Local Space of Medical Discourse: Disease, Illness, and Hospital
Architecture.” In The Social Construction of Illness: Illness and Medical Knowledge in
Past and Present, ed. Jens Lachmund and Gunnar Stollberg. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner
Verlag, 1992.
The Psychedelic Pioneers. Documentary film. Kahani Entertainment, 2005.
Ramsay, Ronald, Sven Jensen, and Robert Sommer. “Values in Alcoholics after LSD-25.”
Journal for Studies on Alcohol 24, no. 3 (1963): 443–48.
Rapson, Richard L., ed. The Cult of Youth in Middle- Class America. Lexington, Mass.:
D. C. Heath, 1971.
Rasporich, A. W. “Utopia, Sect, and Millennium in Western Canada, 1870–1940.” Prai-
rie Forum 12 (1987): 217–43.
Rees, W. Linford, and David Healy. “The Place of Clinical Trials in the Development of
Psychopharmacology.” History of Psychiatry 8 (1997): 1-20.
186 Bibliography
Reeves, Jimmie, and Richard Campbell. Cracked Coverage: Television News, the Anti- Cocaine
Crusade, and the Reagan Legacy. Durham: Duke University Press, 1994.
Richards, John, and Larry Pratt. Prairie Capitalism: Power and Influence in the New West.
Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1979.
Ron Roizen, “How Does the Nation’s ‘Alcohol Problem’ Change from Era to Era? Stalk-
ing the Social Logic of Problem-Definition Transformations since Repeal.” In Alter-
ing American Consciousness: The History of Alcohol and Drug Use in the United States,
1800–2000, ed. Sarah W. Tracy and Caroline Jean Acker, 61- 87. Amherst: University
of Massachusetts Press, 2004.
Room, Robin. “The Cultural Framing of Addiction.” Janus Head 6, no. 2 (2003):
221–34.
Rosenhan, D. L. “On Being Sane in Insane Places.” Science 179 (1973): 250–58.
Rossi, G. V. “Pharmacologic Effects of Drugs Which Are Abused.” American Journal of
Pharmacy and the Sciences Supporting Public Health 142, no. 4 (1970): 161–70.
Roszak, Theodore. The Making of a Counter Culture: Refl ections on the Technocratic Society
and Its Youthful Opposition. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1968.
Rothman, David. The Discovery of the Asylum: Social Order and Disorder in the New Re-
public. Boston: Little, Brown, 1971.
———. Strangers at the Bedside: A History of How Law and Bioethics Transformed Medical
Decision Making. New York: Basic, 1991.
Rotskoff, Lori. Love on the Rocks: Men, Women, and Alcohol in Post–World War II America.
Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002.
———. “Sober Husbands and Supportive Wives: Marital Dramas of Alcoholism in Post–
World War II America.” In Altering American Consciousness: The History of Alcohol
and Drug Use in the United States, 1800–2000, ed. Sarah W. Tracy and Caroline Jean
Acker, 298–326. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2004.
Rouhier, Alexander. La Peyotl: La Plante qui fait les yeux emervieilles. Paris, 1927.
Rudy, Jarrett. “Unmaking Manly Smokes: Church, State, Governance, and the First
Anti-Smoking Campaigns in Montreal, 1892–1914.” Journal of the Canadian Histori-
cal Association 12 (2001): 95–114.
Sandison, R. A. “A Role for Psychedelics in Psychiatry.” British Journal of Psychiatry 187,
no. 5 (2005): 483.
Sandison, R. A., A. M. Spencer, and J. D. A. Whitelaw. “The Therapeutic Value of Lyser-
gic Acid Diethylamide in Mental Illness.” Journal of Mental Science 100, no. 419
(1954): 491–507.
Sandison, R. A., and J. D. A. Whitelaw. “Further Studies in the Therapeutic Value of
Lysergic Acid Diethylamide in Mental Illness.” Journal of Mental Science 103, no. 431
(1957) : 332–43.
Sanger, William. “Mescaline, LSD, Psilocybin, and Personality Change.” Psychiatry:
Journal for the Study of Interpersonal Processes 26, no. 2 (1963): 111–25.
Sankar, D. B., D. V. Siva, E. Gold, and E. Phipps. “Effects of BOL, LSD, and Chlorpro-
mazine on Serotonin Levels.” Federation Proceedings [American Physiological Society]
20, no. 344 (1961), part 1.
Saskatchewan. Saskatchewan Alcoholism Bureau Bulletins. 1959–61.
Bibliography 187
Savage, C., J. Fadiman, R. Mogar, and M. H. Allen. “The Effects of Psychedelic (LSD)
Therapy on Values, Personality, and Behavior.” International Journal of Neuropsychia-
try 2, no. 3 (1966): 241–54.
Scheff, Thomas. Being Mentally Ill: A Sociolog ical Theory. Chicago: Aldine, 1966.
Scull, Andrew. Museums of Madness: The Social Organization of Insanity in Nineteenth- Century
England. London: A. Lane, 1979.
———. “Somatic Treatments and the Historiography of Psychiatry.” History of Psychiatry
5 (1994), 1–12.
Sessa, Ben. “Can Psychedelics Have a Role in Psychiatry Once Again?” British Journal of
Psychiatry 186, no. 4 (2005): 457–58.
Sewell, R. Andrew, John H. Halpern, and Harrison G. Pope Jr. “Response of Cluster
Headache to Psilocybin and LSD.” Neurology 66 (2006): 1920–22.
Sheperd, Michael. “Neurolepsis and the Psychopharmacological Revolution: Myth and
Reality.” History of Psychiatry 5 (1994): 89–96.
Shillington, Howard. The Road to Medicare in Canada. Toronto: Del Graphics, 1972.
Shirvaikar, R.V., and Y. W. Kelkar. “Therapeutic Trial of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide (LSD)
and Thioridazine in Chronic Schizophrenia.” Neurology India 14, no. 2 (1966): 97–101.
Shorter, Edward. A History of Psychiatry: From the Era of the Asylum to the Age of Prozac.
New York: John Wiley, 1997.
———, ed. TPH: History and Memories of the Toronto Psychiatric Hospital, 1925–1966.
Toronto: Wall and Emerson, 1996.
Showalter, Elaine. The Female Malady: Women, Madness, and English Culture, 1830–1980.
New York: Pantheon, 1985.
Shulgin, Alexander, and A. Shulgin, PiHKAL: A Chemical Love Story. New York: Trans-
form, 1991.
———. TiHKAL: The Continuation. New York: Transform, 1997.
Siegler, Miriam, and Humphry Osmond. Models of Madness, Models of Medicine. New
York: Macmillan, 1974.
Siegler, Miriam, Humphry Osmond, and S. Newell. “Models of Alcoholism.” Journal for
Studies on Alcohol 29 (1968): 571–91.
Sigerist, H. E. Saskatchewan Health Ser vices Survey Commission. Regina: King’s Printer,
1944.
Simmons, Benjamin F. “Implications of Court Decisions on Peyote for the Users of
LSD.” Journal of Church and State 11, no. 1 (1969): 83–91.
Simmons, Harvey. From Asylum to Welfare. Downsview, Ont.: National Institute on Men-
tal Retardation, 1982.
———. Unbalanced: Mental Health Policy in Ontario, 1930–1989. Toronto: Wall and
Thompson, 1989.
Simmons, J. Q., S. J. Leiken, O. I. Lovaas, B. Schaeffer, and B. Perloff. “Modification of
Autistic Behavior with LSD-25.” American Journal of Psychiatry 122, no. 11 (1966):
1201–11.
Siva Sankar, D. V., E. Phipps, and D. B. Sankar. “Effect of LSD, BOL, and Chlorpro-
mazine on ‘Neurohormone’ Metabolism.” Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences
96 (1962): 93–97.
188 Bibliography
Smart, R. G., T. Storm, E. F. Baker, and W. Solursh. “A Controlled Study of Lysergide.”

Quarterly Journal of Studies on Alcohol 28, no. 2 (1967): 351–53.
———. “A Controlled Trial of Lysergide in the Treatment of Alcoholism: The Effects on
Drinking Behavior.” Quarterly Journal of Studies on Alcohol 27 (1966): 469–82.
———, eds. Lysergic Acid Diethylamide (LSD) in the Treatment of Alcoholism: An Investiga-
tion of Its Effects on Drinking Behavior, Personality Structure, and Social Functioning.
Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1967.
Smith, Colin. “A New Adjunct to the Treatment of Alcoholism: The Hallucinogenic
Drugs.” Quarterly Journal of Studies on Alcohol 19 (1958): 406–17.
———. “Some Reflections on the Possible Therapeutic Effects of the Hallucinogens:
With Special Reference to Alcoholism.” Quarterly Journal of Studies on Alcohol 20
(1959): 293.
Smith, David E., ed. Building a Province: A History of Saskatchewan in Documents. Saska-
toon: Fifth House, 1992.
Smythies, John. “Autobiography.” Typescript, 2004.
———. “The Experience and Description of the Human Body.” Brain 76 (1953): 132.
———. “Hallucinogenic Drugs.” In Modern Trends in Neurology, ed. Dennis Williams,
chap. 18. 3rd ed. London: Butterworth, 1951.
———. “The Mescaline Phenomena.” British Journal of Philosophical Science (1953):
339–47.
Snelders, Stephen. “LSD and the Dualism between Medical and Social Theories of Men-
tal Illness.” In Cultures of Psychiatry and Mental Health Care in Postwar Britain and the
Netherlands, ed. Marijke Gijswijt-Hofstra and Roy Porter, 103–20. Amsterdam: Ro-
dopi, 1998.
———. “The LSD Therapy Career of Jan Bastiaans, M.D.” MAPS Bulletin 8, no. 1 (1998):
18–20.
Snelders, Stephen, and Charles Kaplan. “LSD in Dutch Psychiatry: Changing Socio-
Political Settings and Medical Sets.” Medical History 46, no. 2 (2002): 221–40.
Snelders, Stephen, Charles Kaplan, and Toine Pieters. “On Cannabis, Chloral Hydrate,
and Career Cycles of Psychotropic Drugs in Medicine.” Bulletin of the History of Medi-
cine 80, no. 1 (2006): 95–114.
Solomon, David, ed. LSD: The Consciousness-Expanding Drug. New York: Putnam, 1964.
Solomon, Linda. “U.S. Border Patrol Bars Canadian Psychotherapist with Drug Re-
search Far in His Past.” AlterNet, www.alternet.org/story/50948/.
Sommer, Robert. Design Awareness. San Francisco: Rinehart, 1971.
———. “Letter-Writing in a Mental Hospital.” American Journal of Psychiatry 115, no. 6
(1958): 514–17.
———. Personal Space: The Behavioral Basis of Design. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.:
Prentice-Hall, 1969.
———. “Psychology in the Wilderness.” Canadian Psychologists 2 (1961): 26–29.
Sommer, Robert, and Humphry Osmond. “Autobiographies of Former Mental Patients.”
Journal of Mental Science 107 (1960): 648–62.
———. “Symptoms of Institutional Care.” Social Problems 8, no. 3 (1961): 254–63.
Bibliography 189
Sommer, Robert, and Irene Watson. “Finding Buried Treasure in the Hospital.” Mental
Hospitals (July 1961): 14–16.
Sournia, J. C. A History of Alcoholism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990.
Speaker, Susan. “Demons for the Twentieth Century: The Rhetoric of Drug Reform,
1920–1940.” In Altering American Consciousness: The History of Alcohol and Drug Use
in the United States, 1800–2000, ed. Sarah W. Tracy and Caroline Jean Acker, 203–24.
Spillane, Joseph. Cocaine: From Medical Marvel to Modern Menace in the United States,
1884–1920. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000.
Stevens, Jay. Storming Heaven: LSD and the American Dream. New York: Grove Press,
1987.
Stevens, Rosemary. In Sickness and in Wealth: American Hospitals in the Twentieth Cen-
tury. New York: Basic, 1989.
———. “Technology and Institutions in the Twentieth Century.” Caduceus 12, no. 3
(1996): 9–18.
Stevenson, Christine. Medicine and Magnificence: British Hospital and Asylum Architec-
ture, 1660–1815. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000.
Stewart, Walter. The Life and Political Times of Tommy Douglas. Toronto: McArthur, 2003.
Szasz, Thomas. Ceremonial Chemistry: The Ritual Persecution of Drugs, Addicts, and
Pushers. Rev. ed. Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 2003.
———. The Myth of Mental Illness: Foundations of a Theory of Personal Conduct. New York:
Harper and Row, 1974.
Takagi, H., S. Yamamoto, S. Takaori, and K. Ogiu. “The Effect of LSD and Reserpine on
the Central Ner vous System of the Cat: The Antagonism between LSD and Chlo-
rpromazine or Reserpine.” Japanese Journal of Pharmacology 7, no. 2 (1958): 119–34.
Tansey, E. M. “ ‘They Used to Call It Psychiatry’: Aspects of the Development and Impact
of Psychopharmacology.” In Cultures of Psychiatry and Mental Health Care in Postwar
Britain and the Netherlands, ed. Marijke Gijswijt-Hofstra and Roy Porter, 79–102.
Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1998.
Taylor, Malcolm G. Health Insurance and Canadian Public Policy: The Seven Decisions
That Created the Canadian Health Insurance System. Montreal: McGill- Queen’s Press,
1978.
Thom, Betsy, and Virginia Berridge. “ ‘Special Units for Common Problems’: The Birth
of Alcohol Treatments in England.” Social History of Medicine 8, no. 1 (1995): 75–93.
Thompson, Kenneth. Moral Panics. London: Routledge, 1998.
Timmermans, Stefan, and Valerie Leiter. “The Redemption of Thalidomide: Standard-
izing the Risk of Birth Defects.” Social Studies of Science 30, no. 1 (2000): 41–71.
Tollefson, Edwin. Bitter Medicine: The Saskatchewan Medicare Feud. Saskatoon: Modern
Press, 1964.
———. “The Medicare Dispute.” In Politics in Saskatchewan, ed. Norman Ward and Duff
Spafford, 238–79. Don Mills, Ont.: Longmans Canada, 1968.
Tomes, Nancy. A Generous Confidence: Thomas Story Kirkbride and the Art of Asylum
Keeping, 1840–1883. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984.
190 Bibliography
Tone, Andrea. “Listening to the Past: History, Psychiatry, and Anxiety.” Canadian Jour-
nal of Psychiatry 50, no. 7 (2005): 373–80.
Medicating Modern America: Prescription Drugs in History. Andrea Tone and Elizabeth
Siegel Watkins, eds. New York: New York University Press, 2007.
Tracy, Sarah W. Alcoholism in America: From Reconstruction to Prohibition. Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005.
Tracy, Sarah W., and Caroline Jean Acker, eds. Altering American Consciousness: The His-
tory of Alcohol and Drug Use in the United States, 1800–2000. Amherst: University of
Massachusetts Press, 2004.
Tremblay, Thomas. Report of the Royal Commission of Inquiry on Constitutional Problems.
Ottawa: Queen’s Printer, 1956.
Tyhurst, J. S., F. C. R. Chalke, F. S. Lawson, B. H. McNeel, C. A. Roberts, G. C. Taylor,
R. J. Weil, and J. D. Griffin, eds. More for the Mind: A Study of Psychiatric Ser vices in
Canada. Toronto: Canadian Mental Health Association, 1963.
Tyler May, Elaine. Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era. New York:
Basic, 1988.
Under the Dome: The Life and Times of Saskatchewan Hospital, Weyburn. Weyburn: Souris
Valley History Book Committee, 1986.
United Nations. “Resolutions Adopted by the Economic and Social Council.” United
Nations Plenary Meeting, 23 May 1968.
University of Regina. News Release. “Regina Five Installation Planned.” www.uregina.
ca/commun/news/2001/october/october20a2001.html. Accessed 5 May 2005.
Valenstein, Elliot. Blaming the Brain: The Truth about Drugs and Mental Health. New
York: Free Press, 1998.
Valverde, Mariana. “ ‘Slavery from Within’: The Invention of Alcoholism and the Ques-
tion of Free Will.” Social History 22, no. 3 (1997): 251–68.
Verderber, Stephen, and David Fine. Healthcare Architecture in an Era of Radical Transfor-
mation. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000.
Vidal, Fernando. “Jean Starobinski: The History of Psychiatry as the Cultural History of
the Consciousness.” In Discovering the History of Psychiatry, ed. Mark S. Micale and
Roy Porter, 135–56. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994.
Voisey, Paul. Vulcan: The Making of a Prairie Community. Toronto: University of Toronto
Press, 1987.
Vos, Rein. “The ‘Dutch Drugstore’ as an Attempt to Reshape Pharmaceutical Practice:
The Conflict between Ethical and Commercial Pharmacy in Dutch Cultures of Medi-
cines.” In Biographies of Remedies: Drugs, Medicines, and Contraceptives in Dutch and
Anglo-American Healing Cultures, ed. Gijswijt-Hofstra, M., G. M. Van Heteren, and
E. M. Tansey, 57–74. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002.
W., William. “The Society of Alcoholics Anonymous (November 1949).” American Jour-
nal of Psychiatry 151, no. 6 (1994) sesquicentennial supp.: 259–62.
Walter, G., A. McDonald, J. M. Rey, and A. Rosen. “Medical Student Knowledge and At-
titudes Regarding ECT prior to and after Viewing ECT Scenes from Movies.” Journal
of ECT 18, no. 2 (2002): 111.
Ward, Mary Jane. The Snake Pit. New York: Random House, 1946.
Bibliography 191
Ward, Norman, and Duff Spafford, eds. Politics in Saskatchewan. Don Mills, Ont.: Long-
mans Canada, 1968.
Watkins, Elizabeth Siegel. On the Pill: A Social History of Oral Contraceptives, 1950–1970.
Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998.
Weckowicz, T. E., Robert Sommer, and R. H. Hall. “Distance Constancy in Schizo-
phrenic Patients.” Journal of Mental Science 104 (1958): 1174–82.
Wiener, Carolyn. The Politics of Alcoholism: Building an Arena around a Social Problem.
New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction, 1981.
Winter, Alison. Mesmerized: Powers of Mind in Victorian Britain. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1998.
Weinstein, Harvey. A Father, a Son, and the CIA. Halifax: Goodread Biographies, 1990.
Whorton, James C. Nature Cures: The History of Alternative Medicine in America. Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2002.
White, William. “The Lessons of Language: Historical Perspectives on the Rhetoric of
Addiction.” In Altering American Consciousness: The History of Alcohol and Drug use in
the United States, 1800–2000, ed. Sarah W. Tracy and Caroline Jean Acker, 33–60.
———. Slaying the Dragon: The History of Addiction Treatment and Recovery in America.
Bloomington, Ill.: Chestnut Health Systems/Light house Institute, 1998.
Whitmer, Peter, and Bruce Van Wyngarden. Aquarius Revisited: Seven Who Created the
Sixties Counterculture That Changed America. New York: Macmillan, 1987.
Wolfe, Tom. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1968.
Wolfensberger, Wolf, Bengt Nirje, et al., eds. The Principle of Normalization in Human
Ser vices. Toronto: National Institute on Mental Retardation, 1972.
World Health Organization. “The Community Mental Hospital.” Third Report of the
World Health Organization Expert Committee on Community Mental Hospitals,
September 1953.
Wright, David, and Roy Porter, eds. The Confinement of the Insane: International Perspec-
tives, 1800–1965. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003.
Wright, Morgan W. “Psychologists at Work.” Canadian Psychologist 2 (1961): 26.
Wuttunee, William I. C. “Peyote Ceremony.” Beaver 299 (1969): 22–25.
Yanni, Carla. “The Linear Plan for Insane Asylums in the United States before 1866.”
Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 62, no. 1 (2003): 24–49.
Yoshioka, Alan. “Streptomycin in Postwar Britain: A Cultural History of a Miracle Drug.”
In Biographies of Remedies: Drugs, Medicines, and Contraceptives in Dutch and
Anglo-American Healing Cultures, ed. M. Gijswijt-Hofstra, G. M. Van Heteren, and
E. M. Tansey, 203–28. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2002.
Young, Walter D. Democracy and Discontent: Progressivism, Socialism, and Social Credit in
the Canadian West. Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson, 1969.
Newspapers
Calgary Herald Financial Post (Toronto)

Colonist Globe and Mail
192 Bibliography
Los Angeles Times Saskatoon StarPhoenix

Maclean’s Times- Colonist
New York Times Toronto Daily Star
Observer Toronto Sun
Ottawa Citizen Varsity (University of Toronto
Regina Leader Post student newspaper)
index
Abramson, Harold, 123 antidepressants, 14, 30, 77

acid, 4, 5, 89, 109, 110, 117, 121, 124, 127, 128, antipsychotics, 8, 14, 77, 150n51
131; as term, 103–4. See also LSD
addiction, 6, 60, 73, 88, 139 baby boomers, 4, 103, 105
Addictions Research Foundation (ARF), 9, Bacon, Seldon, 58
73–75, 129, 135 Bailey, Mary, 39
adrenaline, 17, 35, 36, 52, 60, 67 Baker, William, 74
Agnew, Neil, 39 Ban, Thomas, 14
Alberta, 81, 136 Beckley Foundation, 140
alcohol, 6, 139 Beringer, Karl, 17
Alcohol Education Service, Manitoba, 72 Berle, Milton, 105
Alcoholics Anonymous, 9, 12, 53, 55, 61, Berton, Pierre, 101, 102
62–64, 71, 73 Bill W., 63
alcoholism, 53–78, 79; and adrenaline, 60; black market: aspects of, 109–17; and Cohen,
aversion therapy for, 62–63; and commu- 124; and drug safety, 127, 133; and MacLean,
nity, 62; delirium tremens in, 59, 60; as 132; persistence of, 128; rise of, 4, 103; and
disease, 9, 53, 54–55, 57, 59, 62, 71, 73, 78; Sandoz, 131. See also LSD: access to
and “drinking society,” 57–58; and Hub- Blakeney, Allen, 24
bard, 90, 94; and LSD, 9, 10, 12, 52, 53, Bleuler, Eugene, 18
54, 55–56, 58–62, 63–64, 65–66, 69, 70, Blewett, Duncan: and alcoholism, 71, 72; and
71–78, 106, 113, 119; and mescaline, 61, 85; drug regulation, 134, 142; and environment,
and Native Americans, 85; and perception, 68; Handbook for the Therapeutic Use of
54, 60, 61; and peyote, 83; rates of recovery Lysergic-Acid Diethylamide 25, 69, 91–92, 94;
from, 73; and self-control, 55–56, 77–78; and Hoffer, 95; and Hubbard, 89, 90, 93;
social factors influencing, 57–58, 75; and and LSD concerns, 133–34; and LSD effects,
social stigma, 75 69; and LSD experience, 56; and MacLean,
Allen Memorial Hospital, Montreal, 3 132; and peyote, 85, 86, 87, 88, 96; research
Alpert, Richard, 107, 108 by, 39; and students, 135
Amanita mushroom, 97 Bovet, Daniel, 14
American Psychiatric Association, 45 Braden, William, 114–15
amphetamines, 105 British Columbia, 10, 76, 79, 136
Andrew, R., 140
anhalonidine, 83 Calder, Jake, 58, 63–64
anhalonine, 83 California, 9, 10, 79
194 Index
Cameron, Ewen, 3–4 Douglas, Thomas “Tommy” Clement, 21; and

Cameron, Hector, 15 Blewett, 133; and eugenics, 148n27; and
Canadian government: Department of LSD therapies, 71, 72–73; and McKerracher,
National Health and Welfare, 84, 129; 25; and medical research, 11; and mental
Food and Drugs Act, 129, 130; Food and health facilities, 22–23; and mental health
Drugs Division, 84; and LSD regulation, programs, 19–20, 26; and publicly funded
7, 101, 119, 128, 129, 130, 131; Narcotic health care, 28
Control Act, 131; and peyote, 9–10, 81, 83, drugs: classification of, 138–39; prescription,
84; and psychedelic psychiatry, 135–36; and 105, 106, 136, 143
thalidomide, 119; and youth counterculture drug therapy, 30–31
and medical experts, 134. See also govern-
ment; law ecstasy (MDMA), 6, 139–40
Canadian Psychiatric Association, 119 electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), 5, 18, 30,
Canadian Temperance Foundation, 72 153n39
Cerletti, Ugo, 48, 153n39 Ellis, Havelock, 17
Chemie Grünenthal (company), 119 empirical measurement, 47–49, 60, 70
chlorpromazine, 14, 15, 123, 153n39 ethics, 3–4, 11, 30, 49, 90. See also morality
Christianity, 83, 87
Chwelos, Nick, 39, 68, 69, 95; Handbook for the Feldmar, Andrew, 138
Therapeutic Use of Lysergic-Acid Diethylamide Ferguson, James, 129
25, 69, 91–92, 94 Fort Battleford, Canada, 85, 87
CIA, 3, 5, 6, 162n15 Frank W. Horner Limited, 119
cocaine, 6, 114, 120 Freud, Sigmund, 8, 48
Cohen, Sidney, 98, 122–23, 124
Cohen, Stanley, 103 Gayton, J. L., 132
cold war, 3, 7, 107 General Hospital, Munro Wing,
Coleman, E. H., Shutter of Snow, 43 Regina, 20
Commission for the Study of Creative Imagina- General Hospital, Vancouver, 95
tion, 10, 89, 97–98, 109, 122, 133 Gibson, William C., 97
Connaught Medical Laboratories, 129 Ginsberg, Allen, 101, 102, 130
contraceptives, oral, 105 Globe and Mail, 113, 124
Co-operative Commonwealth Federation government, 7; and alcoholism, 53–54; and LSD
(CCF), 11, 23, 24 regulation, 5–6, 135; and medical profession-
counterculture, 103, 109, 121 als, 127; and peyote use, 9. See also Canadian
Cree Indian Nation, 87 government; law; Saskatchewan government;
crime, 80, 109, 114, 120. See also LSD: crimi- United States government
nalization of Great Depression, 23
Crockford, Ross, 24 Grob, Gerald, 147n6
Cumming, Elaine, 32
Curran, Desmond, 17 hallucination(s): defined, 145n7; experience of,
64; importance of, 41; and Katz, 32; kinds of,
Dali, Salvador, 13 40, 67; and LSD, 3; and LSD dosage, 13; and
Delta Chemical Company, 95 nicotinic acid, 39; and peyote, 9, 82; as posi-
delusion, 3, 69, 145n7, 146n5 tive symptom, 146n5; as response, 69; and
Denson, Ray, 39, 76, 137 Smythies, 17. See also perception
Diefenbaker, John, 101 hallucinogens, 1, 2, 4, 9, 55, 84, 90, 117, 130,
Ditman, Keith S., 109 131, 136. See also psychedelic(s)
Dodd, Thomas J., 131 Halpern, John H., 140
Index 195
Handbook for the Therapeutic Use of Lysergic-Acid Hollywood Hospital, British Columbia, 68, 76,
Diethylamide 25 (Blewett and Chwelos), 69, 89, 98, 132
91–92, 94 Howe, William Dean, 130
Harley-Mason, John, 17 Hubbard, Al, 10, 68, 89–99, 100, 122
Harvard University, 107, 113 Huxley, Aldous, 97; The Doors of Perception, 1,
headaches, cluster, 139, 140 2, 32
health care: mental, 14, 105; publicly funded, 11, Hyatt, Pam, 101
19–26, 28, 53–54
Healy, David, 8, 14, 150n51 ibogaine, 139
Heard, Gerald, 97 Indian and Northern Health Services, 84
heroin, 114, 143 insulin-coma therapy, 30, 153n39
Hobbs, Jonathan, 141 International Association of Psychodelytic
Hoffer, Abram: and alcoholism, 53, 54, 55–60, Therapy, 132–33
73; archives of, 11; background of, 26; and Izumi, Amy, 37
Berton, 101, 102; and biochemistry, 26, 35, Izumi, Kyoshi, 37, 113, 159n25
88; and Sidney Cohen, 124; and Commis-
sion for the Study of Creative Imagination, James, William, 17
10, 97; and controlled experiments, 48; and Jellinek, E. M., 53, 54
counterculture, 137; and drug regulation, Jensen, Sven, 39, 70, 72, 73–74, 75
134, 136–37, 141–42; and environment, 68; Jillings, Charles, 32
and Hubbard, 89–90, 93–94, 95, 96, 98, Johns Hopkins Bayview Medical Center,
99; and Leary, 108–9; and LSD concerns, Baltimore, 140
116, 117, 127; and MacLean, 132; and media, Johnston, Howard, 130
113; and mental illness, 27; and mescaline, Jung, Carl, 60
80; and negative LSD experience, 67; and
nonmedical factors in therapy, 77; and Katz, Sidney, “My 12 Hours as a Madman,” 32–35
nonmedical uses of LSD, 79–80; as observer, Keenleyside, Hugh L., 97
88–89; and Osmond, 26; and peyote, 9, Kennedy, John F., 107
81–82, 83, 84–85, 86, 96; and pharmaceuti- Kennedy, Robert F., 131
cal companies, 56–57; photograph of, 27; Kesey, Ken, 6, 162n15; One Flew over the
and Potoroka, 72; professional connections Cuckoo’s Nest, 4–5
of, 89; professional criticism of, 73–75, 137; Khrushchev, Nikita, 107
and psychedelic experience, 29–30; and King, Carlyle, 85
psychedelic therapy, 31; and psychoanalysis, Klukauf, W., 97
30, 45–47; and psychopharmacology, 30, Klüver, Heinrich, Mescal, 17, 83
45, 46, 48–49; publicizing of experiments
by, 38; and Saskatchewan Department of Laborit, Henri, 14, 48, 153n39
Public Health, 26; and schizophrenia, 35; Largactil. See chlorpromazine
and science, 99, 100; and spirituality, 99; law: and medical experts, 7; and Osmond, 127,
and stroboscope, 93; and subjects’ experience 128–29; and peyote, 82, 83, 84; and public
vs. experience of reaction, 75; support for, concerns, 113, 117, 119–21, 128–32. See also Ca-
51; theory of, 45–52; and volunteers, 38, 106; nadian government; government; LSD: regula-
and Bill W., 63 tion and control of; United States government
Hoffer, Israel, 26 League for Spiritual Discovery, 4, 107, 108
Hoffer, Rose, 37 Leary, Timothy: experiences of, 107–8; as LSD
Hoffman La Roche (company), 95 guru, 4; and MacLean, 132; and media, 6,
Hofmann, Albert, 13, 109–10 112, 113, 114, 130; and Osmond, 108–9; on
Hollister, Leo, 76 Under Attack, 101, 102
196 Index
Le Dain Commission, 135–36 of, 3, 31, 37–38, 40–42, 52, 55–56, 63, 65–67,
Lights Organic Chemicals, 95 69–70, 75, 76, 90–92, 122–23, 133, 137,
lithium, 6 139–40, 143; and negative reactions, 67; ob-
lobotomy, 5, 18, 30 jective assessment of, 74; observers’ reports
lophophorine, 83 of, 66; and patients with mental illness,
LSD: access to, 80, 94–95, 96, 108, 109–17, 43–44, 45; perception in, 36, 37, 40, 41, 42,
125, 126, 128, 129, 141; and alcoholism, 9, 10, 44, 45, 48, 54, 61, 65, 67, 76, 77, 90–91, 93,
53, 54, 55–56, 58–62, 63–64, 65–66, 69, 70, 94, 133; and personal philosophy, 52, 69,
71–78, 106, 113, 119; biochemical activity of, 111, 122, 125; as psychedelic, 2; and religion,
37; British study of, 139; changing reputation 64, 69, 72, 99, 106; reports of, 40–42; and
of, 3, 5–6, 7, 10–12, 14–15; concern over, 5–6, self-awareness, 52; and self-concept, 69, 92;
10–11, 101–18, 122, 123, 124–37; criminaliza- and self-control, 8; and self-perception, 31, 55,
tion of, 6, 7, 111, 113, 117, 130–31, 136, 138, 63; and self-reflection, 9, 64; and single ses-
140, 142; cultural meaning of, 10–11, 143; sion therapy, 8, 77; and spirituality, 31, 41, 52,
current research in, 139; Czechoslovakian 55, 63, 65–66, 69, 70, 72, 79, 80, 82, 98–99,
study of, 75, 77; as dangerous, 6, 101, 110, 100, 111, 125; as subjective, 29–30, 49, 66,
111, 114, 115, 116, 124, 125, 130, 132, 137, 141; 70, 77, 106, 107. See also medical research
Danish study of, 75; education about, 142, and experimentation
143; and health care reform, 28; homemade,
109, 127; and Hubbard, 90; as ineffective, MacEachen, Allan, 129–30
74; and law, 7; manufacture of, 80; and MacLean, J. R. (Ross), 76, 98, 132, 134
mental illness, 3, 8, 14, 26–27, 28, 31; and MacLean Hospital, Massachusetts, 140
mescaline, 26; as narcotic, 5–6, 128, 131; and malaria, 30
nicotinic acid, 37, 39, 90; nonmedical use marijuana, 6, 107–8, 142
of, 79–80, 96; observable reactions to vs. Marks, Harry, 47–48
subjective experience of, 70; and Osmond, Marks, John, 3
18, 26; and personality disorders, 75; and McClellan, John L., 131
peyote, 83, 87; and pharmacotherapy, 8; McKerracher, D. G., 25–26, 36
politicization of, 117, 135, 138; recreational MDMA (ecstasy), 6, 139–40
use of, 106, 122, 125, 130, 141; recurring media: and Leary, 108, 130; and LSD concerns,
effects of, 123; regulation and control of, 5–6, 6, 101–2, 111–17, 118, 122, 123, 124, 126, 130;
7, 103, 110, 113, 116, 117, 119–21, 128–32, 134, misinformation in, 133; and recreational
135, 136, 139, 141–43; as safe, 38, 116, 124, drug use, 104; and youth culture, 135
133; and schizophrenia, 3, 18, 34, 37, 44; and medical professionals: decline in authority of,
science, 98–99; self-experimentation with, 117–18, 122, 127, 135, 136; and drug regula-
1, 3, 7, 15, 18, 36, 37, 39, 58, 68, 69, 118, 123; tion, 7, 119–20, 121, 134, 139, 141–43
socially constructed view of, 78; synthesis of, medical research and experimentation: con-
13; therapeutic benefits of, 9, 51–52, 69, 70, trolled, 47–48, 49, 50, 54, 56–57, 59, 70,
96, 141; in Weyburn, 2. See also acid; medical 74–76, 77, 119, 120, 121, 124; and dosage,
research and experimentation; psychedelic(s) 13, 38, 40, 59, 61; double-blind, 47, 50–51;
LSD experience: and alcoholism, 59; and effects vs. controls in, 49, 50; funding for, 23,
awareness, 55–56; conscious, 31; and emo- 27–28, 35, 61, 126; and government regula-
tion, 93, 122–23; and empathy, 46, 58, 67, tion, 6, 7, 128, 129, 130, 131–32; government
69, 70, 88; and flashbacks, 123, 133; and support for, 28; and Hubbard, 90; isolation
Huxley, 1, 2; as individual, 37, 40, 42, 43–44, of reactions in, 74–75, 76; and LSD concerns,
54, 60, 76; insight from, 8, 39, 41–42, 69, 110, 111, 124–26, 133; and model psychosis,
99; and Katz, 32–34, 35; and memory, 93; 37, 38, 55, 59, 60; objective measures in, 77;
and mental health workers, 39–40; nature procedure for, 40–41, 61, 65, 67–68, 74–75;
Index 197
and psychiatry, 3, 10–11, 14–15, 119; safety Native Americans, 9–10, 80, 81–89
of, 137; in Saskatchewan, 1–3, 22–25; setting neuroscience, 140
for, 61, 67–68, 74–75, 76, 90–94; statistics Newland, Constance, My Self and I, 112
in, 47, 50, 57. See also LSD; LSD experience; New York Times, 112–13, 114–15
psychiatry niacin, 67, 92
Meduna, Ladislas von, 48, 153n39 Nicoline, Ernest, 84–85
mental health professionals, 23, 39–40 nicotinic acid, 37, 39, 90
mental illness: biochemical theory of, 9, 17, 18,
26–27, 31, 34, 45–47, 49; biological theories obsessive-compulsive disorder, 140
of, 30; education about, 23; integration of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest (film), 4–5
theory and evidence concerning, 48; and opium, 6, 120
LSD, 3, 8, 14, 26–27, 28, 31, 34, 37, 44; and Orlikow, David, 4
mescaline, 17–18; and psychopharmacology, Orlikow, Val, 4
49; and social stigma, 25–26. See also schizo- Oscapella, Eugene, 138
phrenia Osmond, Humphry, 16; and alcoholism, 53,
mental institutions, 42, 43, 47 54, 55–60, 73; background of, 15–17; and bio-
Merry Pranksters, 5 chemical research, 26–28; and black market,
mescaline, 38; access to, 95; and alcoholism, 55, 109–11; and Sidney Cohen, 124; and collegial
61, 85; concerns over, 9–10; and distortions research network, 10; and Commission for
in perception, 36; and Hubbard, 90, 97; and the Study of Creative Imagination, 97; and
Huxley, 1, 32; and LSD, 26; and Osmond, controlled experiments, 48; and drug dealers,
1, 9, 26, 35, 36; and peyote, 82, 83; and 111, 134, 135; and drug regulation, 142–43;
psychedelic experience, 2; reactions to, 123; and empathy, 40, 67, 88; and Hoffer, 26;
and religious ceremonies, 18, 80; and schizo- and Hubbard, 89, 90, 93, 96; and Huxley,
phrenia, 17–18; and therapy, 106, 122. See 1–2, 97; and insight, 41–42; and Izumi,
also peyote; psychedelic(s) 159n25; and Katz, 32, 33, 34–35; and Robert F.
methadone, 120 Kennedy, 131–32; and Leary, 108–9; and LSD
Mexican spiritual ceremonies, 17 concerns, 115–16, 117, 126–28, 131–32; and
military, 3, 11 LSD regulation, 128–29, 134, 136; margin-
Miltown, 105 alization of, 7; and media, 113; and mental
Mitchell, S. Weir, 17 illness, 27; and mescaline, 1, 9, 26, 35, 36,
MK-ULTRA (psychology program), 5, 162n15 80; move to Weyburn by, 19; and nonmedical
model psychosis, 37, 38, 55, 59, 60, 119. See also factors in therapy, 77; and nonmedical uses
psychosis of LSD, 79–80; and patients’ perspectives,
Mogar, Robert, 122, 126 42–45; and peyote, 9, 81–82, 85, 86, 87–88,
Moore, P. E., 84 96, 147n15; and pharmaceutical companies,
morality, 53, 71, 73, 83, 103, 105, 109, 115, 117. 56–57; professional connections of, 89;
See also ethics professional criticism of, 73–75, 137; and
Morens, Francisco, 140 psychedelic as term, 1–2; and psychedelic
morphine, 6 experience, 29–30; and psychedelic therapy,
Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic 31; and psychiatry, 1; and psychoanalysis, 30,
Studies (MAPS), 140 45–47; and psychopharmacology, 30, 45, 46,
48, 49; publicization of experiments by, 38;
Narcotic Addiction Control Commission, 106 and Saskatchewan Mental Hospital, 26; and
Narcotic Foundation of British Columbia, 132 schizophrenia, 17–18, 35; self-experimentation
Native American Church of North America: by, 36, 37, 39; and subjects’ experience vs.
and peyote ceremony, 9–10, 80, 81, 82, experience of reaction, 75; support for, 51;
85–88, 96, 98, 100; and Takes Gun, 83–84 theory of, 18, 26–27, 45–52; and volunteers,
198 Index
Osmond, Humphry (continued) and Kesey, 5; and LSD, 3, 10–11, 39, 119;
38–39, 40; and Bill W., 63; and youth and McKerracher, 25–26; and Osmond, 17;
counterculture, 134–35 psychedelic, 7, 8, 9, 31, 48, 51, 60, 80, 104,
Osmond, Jane, 37 117, 118, 127, 132, 135, 137, 144; and psychop-
harmacology, 7–10, 14–15, 17, 29, 30, 105; in
Parkinson’s disease, 139 Saskatchewan, 23, 25–26. See also medical
patients, 146n18; administration of LSD to, 44; research and experimentation
anxiety over LSD by, 125, 126; comfort level psychoanalysis: and Osmond and Hoffer, 30,
of, 74–75; dependence in, 77; empowerment 45–47; and psychopharmacology, 30–31
of, 8; knowledge and consent of, 3–4; and psychopharmacology, 3, 49, 56, 111; and Hoffer,
LSD experience, 43–44, 45; perspectives of, 30, 45, 46, 48–49; and Osmond, 30, 45, 46,
42–45, 46, 70; reduction of symptoms in, 77; 48–49; and psychiatry, 7–10, 14–15, 17, 29,
reports by, 11, 12, 48, 61, 65–67; self-control 30, 105; and psychoanalysis, 30–31
of, 8, 77; and sense of self, 48. See also psychosis, 38, 46, 47, 69, 114. See also model
volunteers psychosis
Paxil, 6 psychosurgery, 5, 18, 30
perception, 42, 48, 61, 67, 69; and alcoholism, Pylyshyn, Zenon, 138
54, 60, 61; distortion of, 36, 37, 40, 41, 42,
44, 45, 54, 61, 65, 76, 77, 90–91, 133; and race, 10, 85
Hubbard, 93, 94; and mental illness, 42, 43; Rae, Bob, 116
and peyote, 82; and schizophrenia, 45 Redmill, Julian, 17
personality disorder, 75 Red Pheasant Band, 84–85, 147n15; and peyote
peyote: effects of, 82, 83; as narcotic, 81, 84, 88; ceremony, 81–82, 85–88, 96
and Native American religion, 9–10, 17, 80, religion, 63, 64, 80, 107, 108; and LSD, 69, 72,
81–89; and perception, 82; and religion, 9, 99, 106; and peyote, 9, 10, 18, 80, 82, 83, 84,
10, 18, 80, 82, 83, 84, 85–88, 94, 96, 98; and 85–88, 94, 96, 98
self-reflection, 82. See also mescaline Richardson-Merrell (company), 119
peyote cactus, 9, 17 Rinkel, Max, 112
phanerothyme, 2 Ritalin, 6, 143
pharmaceutical companies, 6, 50, 56–57, 121 Rolling Stones, 105
pharmacotherapy, 3, 8, 9, 47, 77 Rorschach test, 151n12
“Police Fear Child Swallowed LSD” (New York Rouhier, Alexander, 17
Times), 114 Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), 81,
political activism, 4, 6, 111, 114, 132 130
post-traumatic stress disorder, 139 Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons, 119
Potoroka, William, 72 Royal Commission on the Non-Medical Use of
Powell, William, The Anarchist’s Cookbook, 109 Drugs, 135
Prohibition, 53, 57, 116
Prozac, 6, 140, 143 Sagi, Doug, “White Men Witness Indian Peyote
psilocybin, 10, 106, 107, 122, 139, 140 Rites,” 85–87
psychedelic(s), 5, 10, 30, 110, 127; current Sakel, Manfred, 48
research in, 139–41; experience of, 29–30, Sandison, Ronald, 141
106, 121–22; as term, 1–2, 64, 133, 145n5; Sandoz Pharmaceutical Company: Canada, 94,
therapy with, 31, 73–74, 117, 120; and youth 95; Quebec, 36; Switzerland, 80, 94, 107,
culture, 135, 136. See also hallucinogens; LSD; 128, 129, 131, 160n30
mescaline Sandoz Pharmaceutical Laboratories, 109–10
Psychiatric Centre, Yorkton, Saskatchewan, 20 Saskatchewan, 7, 23–24, 51
psychiatry, 7–8, 30, 48, 56; and Douglas, 23; Saskatchewan government: and alcoholism, 54,
Index 199
55; Bureau on Alcoholism, 58, 63, 71; Depart- tobacco, 120, 139
ment of Public Health, 26; and health care tranquilizers, 30, 105, 106
reforms, 19, 23, 25–26, 77; and LSD regula- Tyhurst, Jim, 98
tion, 136; and LSD research, 28–29, 36, 137; Tyler May, Elaine, 161n4
mental health care in, 19–26; and peyote, 81,
84. See also government Under Attack (TV program), 101, 102
Saskatchewan Mental Hospital: North Battle- United Kingdom, Misuse of Drugs Act,
ford, 20; Weyburn, 20, 22, 26 139
Saskatoon Star-Phoenix, 85 United Nations, 136
schizophrenia: and adrenaline, 60; biochemi- United States, 46, 129
cal factors in, 18, 38, 45, 47, 49; and Hoffer United States government, 83, 131; Food and
and Osmond, 35; and Leary, 108; and LSD, Drug Administration, 110, 121, 136; Home-
3, 18, 34, 37, 44; and mescaline, 17–18; and land Security Act, 138; National Institute of
perception, 45; psychological factors in, 18. Mental Health, 131. See also CIA; govern-
See also mental illness ment; law; LSD: regulation and control of
sedatives, 105 University Hospital, Saskatchewan, 61
Sessa, Ben, 141 University of British Columbia, 95
set and setting, research, 61, 67–68, 74–75, 76, University of Saskatchewan, 20, 38, 106
90–94 University of Toronto festival, 116
Seven Days (TV program), 101
Shorter, Edward, 7 Valium, 105, 143
Shulgin, Alexander, 140 Veterans Administration Hospital, Topeka,
Sigerist, Henry E., 23 Kansas, 76–77
“A Slaying Suspect Tells of LSD Spree” (New violence, 9, 80, 81, 83, 84, 114–15
York Times), 115 volunteers, 36–37, 38–39, 40, 104, 106–7, 117,
Smart, Reginald, 73–74 125, 126, 146n18. See also patients
Smith, Colin, 39, 61–62, 66, 68, 69, 134
Smythies, John, 17, 18, 26, 27, 50–51, 97, 149n42 W., Bill, 63
Solursh, Lionel, 74 Ward, Mary Jane, The Snake Pit, 43
Sommer, Robert, 23–24, 42–45, 159n25 Wasson, Gordon, 97
spirituality, 10, 63, 64, 107, 108; and LSD, 31, Weckowicz, Teddy, 85, 88
41, 52, 55, 63, 65–66, 69, 70, 72, 79, 80, 82, Weyburn, Saskatchewan, 1, 2–3, 7, 8, 9, 11–12,
98–99, 100, 111, 125; and peyote, 81, 82, 88 19–20
Stefaniuk, Ben, 32 White, Morgan, 24
Stolaroff, Myron, 99 World Health Organization, 136
Stony/Sarcee Indian Agency, 81 World War II, 7, 15, 21, 23, 25, 29, 30, 46
Storm, Thomas, 73–74
students, 4, 102–3, 104, 106–7, 109, 111, 115, youth and youth culture: and Commission for
116, 131. See also youth and youth culture the Study of Creative Imagination, 133; and
suicide, 110, 114, 123, 124, 132 demography, 104–6; and generational anxi-
Sunchild Cree First Nation, 81 ety, 105–6, 117, 118; and Kesey, 5; and Leary,
Szasz, Thomas, 8 109; and Le Dain Commission, 136; and
Narcotic Foundation of British Columbia,
Takes Gun, Frank, 83–84, 87–88, 100 132; and psychedelics, 135; and radicalism,
thalidomide, 6–7, 119, 121, 122, 124 6, 121; student, 4, 102–3, 106–7, 111, 115. See
Thorazine. See chlorpromazine also students

Psychedelic Psychiatry - LSD From Clinic To Campus

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Psychedelic Psychiatry - LSD From Clinic To Campus

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Psychedelic Psychiatry - LSD From Clinic To Campus

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

VISIT…

LSD from Clinic to Campus

The Johns Hopkins University Press

The Johns Hopkins University Press

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The Johns Hopkins University Press uses environmentally friendly

3. Highs and Lows 53

4. Keeping Tabs on Science and Spirituality 79

5. Acid Panic 101

6. “The Perfect Contraband” 119

I am indebted to many people for ﬁnancial, material, and emotional support

In the spring of 1953, the psychiatrist Humphry Osmond made a historical

a friendly competition to come up with a word to describe the mescaline or LSD

To make this mundane world sublime

Osmond responded with his own rhyming couplet:

To fall in Hell or soar Angelic

The classically trained Osmond combined the Greek words psyche—mean-

most enduring, and internationally signiﬁcant experiments in the post–World

of invasive therapies including electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) and a lobotomy.

The increased focus on drug treatments in psychiatry brought changes in

between consumers and resistors. Psychedelic psychiatrists, whose approaches

expanded to tackle the problems of alcoholism and mental health accommoda-

In April 1943, Albert Hofmann, a Swiss biochemist, dissolved an inﬁnitesi-

Humphry Osmond Brings LSD to Saskatchewan

Humphry Osmond at Saskatchewan Mental Hospital in Weyburn, Saskatchewan.

From Dust Bowl to Drugs

Provincial Mental Hospital,

General Hospital, Munro Wing,

Yorkton Provincial Mental Hospital

Sites of psychiatric research in Saskatchewan during the 1950s and 1960s.

premier, Douglas maintained a keen interest in mental health programs and

large-scale institutions. In the late 1940s, the Saskatchewan government aban-

eroded psychoanalytic paradigms and gave way to drug therapies or psychophar-

“My 12 Hours as a Madman” appeared in Maclean’s, a national Canadian

I will never be able to describe fully what happened to me during my excursion

Katz participated in this experiment in an effort to more widely publicize the

that they believed the LSD reaction mimicked schizophrenia. He reﬂected on

the preliminary inventory of LSD experiences and considered them a success.

the pool of mental health workers in Weyburn. Their recruitment strategies

Psychedelic drugs, according to Osmond, helped generate empathy toward

nurse present took notes based on observations of the subject’s reactions. On

a patient’s manner of communication. Furthermore, the importance of study-

Osmond shared Hoffer’s understanding of the dramatic shift under way in

because it focused on nonpsychotic mental disorders. In other words, free as-

described as “an ideological cult of impersonality, in which researchers sought

Summarizing his major criticisms of the dominant approaches in modern psy-

Hoffer’s and Osmond’s critiques of controlled drug trials rested on three

Highs and Lows

existed as a medical problem it also meant that medical professionals could

to the patient. Drugs alone constituted an insufﬁcient therapeutic modality;

instead discussed the contemporary challenges facing psychiatrists. Sometime

chemical substances to suppress the desire to drink), by between 10 and 30

moral arguments about the inherent weaknesses of alcoholics. On the other

Because of the intensely personal and subjective nature of experiences gen-

Smith categorized this par ticular LSD experience as a psychedelic reaction.

The variety of LSD reactions observed in hundreds of trials contributed

1. A feeling of being at one with the Universe.

disorder, perceptual distortion, severe anxiety and others which have

Publicizing the Results