Nov 14 2008

Remembering Timothy Leary

Published by at 2:35 am under technology,virtual reality

Remembering Dr. Timothy Leary.
Journal of Popular Culture; 8/1/2004; Seesholtz, Mel

He flies so high,
He swoops so low.
He knows exactly which way he’s gonna go …
–The Moody Blues
“Legend of a Mind”
In Search of the Lost Chord

The charisma of the guru may become as self-serving as the very
Establishment against which it arose, as it is routinized by efforts
to sustain power.
–Sheldon B. Kopp, If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him!

TIMOTHY LEARY. A CONTROVERSIAL FIGURE FOR MORE THAN FORTY years–from his groundbreaking work in psychology in the 1950s, through the psychedelic 1960s and into the cybernetic 1990s, Dr. Leary always managed to be at the forefront of the latest cutting edge. For some, he was a pop culture and counterculture hero, for others, a drug-soaked Pied Piper leading the youth of America astray. For Richard Nixon, he was the “Most Dangerous Man in America”–MDMA–an acronym Leary quite liked. MDMA, the “love drug,” was one of Timothy’s favorites.

He was also a husband, a father, a grandfather, a great-grandfather and, for a number of years, a close friend. Timothy Leary was many things to many people. He was a quantum singularity, and those who came within his gravitational pull usually got the “Timothy Leary” they expected. Yet, in all of his personae and all of his varied sets and settings, he was always a “cheerful cricket in a summer garden scraping out one unchanging note” (Horowitz 6). He described himself that way in the preface to Michael Horowitz’s 1988 An Annotated Bibliography of Timothy Leary: “Reading this book has taught me a lot about myself. Reviewing this list of published transmissions spanning a period of some forty years I see a clear pattern of thematic repetition that is almost robotic. I am humbled to see that I have been a cheerful cricket in a summer garden scraping out one unchanging note” (6). That note was also one of his taglines: “Think for Yourself and Question Authority,” just as long as it wasn’t his authority.

“Timmy,” as his last wife used to call him, was also always Dr. Leary, the psychologist who published Interpersonal Diagnosis of Personality: A Functional Theory and Methodology for Personality Evaluation in 1957. The educational computer programs he conceived in the late 1980s and described in the afterword of the 1990 revision of his autobiography (pp. 384-86) were obvious flashbacks to his earlier work on the cartography of personalities and the topography of their interactions, studies that he continued throughout his life. As any practicing clinical or research psychologist will attest, the “doctor” must remain aloof, dissociated from his patients’ lives. The researcher must not become too involved, interpersonally, with his subjects. Ultimately, Tim never did. Being in a social setting with him or being alone together always involved ongoing interpersonal diagnoses of personalities. The axiom among those closest to him was “Don’t take anything he says or does personally”–a conundrum tailor-made by and for Dr. Timothy Leary.

After his death, people would ask, “You knew him. What was Timothy Leary really like?” My usual answer was, “I don’t really know.”

But the years I spent with him–working on various projects, staying in his home (and he in mine), traveling with him throughout the United States and Europe–afforded me some insight, however limited, into this historically and culturally significant figure. Those years included the suicide of his daughter, severe financial difficulties amid soaring popularity, the demise of his fifth marriage, cancer, and death.

What follows are anecdotal glimpses into the mosaic of those insights, beginning at the end …

May 30, 1996. 03:17 EDT, an email arrived from Vicki Marshall, his archivist and administrative assistant. She was there, with him, in the house at 10106 Sunbrook Drive, Beverly Hills, California 90210. Its subject was “the end is near”:

Thought you’d want to know … the end is near. Last week marked a
serious turn for the worse and Timothy is fading fast.

Please keep a good thought for him. He’s having trouble letting go and
can really use all the good energy he can get.
Miss you …

The clock’s digital readout read, in red, 3:32 A.M., 31 May 1996. The caller seemed to hang up rather quickly. Short message or wrong number. I hoped for the latter, but knew it was the former. Vicki’s voice sounded strong, but assailed: “Timothy died, about twenty minutes ago.”

A few hours later, I turned on the Moody Blues’s In Search of the Lost Chord CD, tuned in to “Legend of a Mind,” and dropped in to

Timothy has passed …
Just after midnight, in his favorite bed among loving friends,
Timothy Leary peacefully passed on. His last words were “why not?”
and “yeah.” Our friend and teacher, guide and inspiration will
continue to live within us.

Subsequent media accounts also reported that Tim went quietly. I knew that was less than accurate–spin the media propagated, but did not set in motion. Timothy Leary would not go gently or quietly into that good night. He loved playing the Game of Life too much for passive resignation, which wasn’t in his nature. The man had died, but the message–and legend–had to go on, as he wished them to, especially via

March 2001. hadn’t been updated since February 18, 1999. (1) Timothy seemed to be passing into history rather quickly. His Biography was “not found on this server.” Leary’s Last Trip was. It concluded:

So how did he die after all?
Leary died peacefully of natural causes in his own bed on the night
of May 31, 1996. He was surrounded by friends and family. After a
festive wake, his body was cremated and the ashes were divided
amongst loved ones. As his longtime friend John Perry Barlow writes:
Timothy Leary died unashamed and having, as usual, a great time. He
made good on his promise to “give death a better name or die trying.”
Willingly, peacefully, and unafraid, he headed off on his last trip.

In a small plastic cube–the kind that dentists in the 50s and 60s used to put your tooth in so you could take it home–housed in a piece of handmade Colombian pottery beneath small evergreen trees in the sitting room on the upper level of my home rest some of Timothy Leary’s ashes. He certainly did not die of “natural causes.” His prostate cancer had metastasized throughout his body, including his spine. The writers at also misstated the time of his death. Mr. Barlow was no more accurate, but propagated the myth that, for me, had begun in 1987, in Winnipeg, Canada, at the Contexts conference sponsored by Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature. Dr. Leary came to hear my paper. He liked the title: “When the Quarks Come Marching Home, Again …” He took notes as I was speaking and used them in his keynote address, which I came to know as his Performing Philosophy routine, albeit academically altered for this audience.

That was our first meeting. We’d spent only a few minutes alone together then. He emphatically and enthusiastically told me to read William Gibson’s Neuromancer, and we showed each other pictures of our kids. As we parted, he said “keep in touch!” and scribbled his P.O. box address on a napkin. A few weeks later, I sent him a handwritten note; his response was word processed except for an in-character psycholinguistic change (“a bit” to “kinda”) and his signature (see Figure 1).

“Consider” writing a book with him? I replied immediately but received no response. About a year later, I sent him another note. My daughter and I would be vacationing in Los Angeles. Could he spare a moment to meet her? I didn’t expect a response, but one came quickly:

Call me 213-976-1923

I did, from Santa Monica. “Oh, Mel! Come up!!” Two days later, after a day of rehearsing our lines, I performed with Timothy Leary at Carlos and Charlie’s on Sunset Strip. My daughter introduced the headliner, who eventually appointed himself her godfather.

For the next several years, Tim and I were together as much and as often as possible. When we couldn’t be together, we talked several times a day, every day, by phone. And in those pre-email days, we modemed documents and thoughts and ideas every day, several times a day. I spent every holiday and vacation as his house guest. He spent his seventieth birthday with my daughter and me in our home, where he was also a frequent guest. And we traveled together. Some of my most cherished memories and memorable experiences are nights we spent alone together drinking and smoking in hotel rooms in New York City, which always ended in the inevitable 3:00 A.M. run to get a fix … of chocolate.


Huck and Tom Go to Europe

In early September 1990, just a few days after his daughter hanged herself in jail (where she was being held after allegedly shooting her boyfriend in the head), Tim and I were supposed to begin the European Cyberspace Tour. We would leave from New York on September 9 nonstop to Vienna. Once there, we’d go immediately to Linz for Ars Electronica. From there, to Heidelberg and the Mannheim performance, then on via Frankfurt to the performance in Amsterdam. From there back to Germany for the Hamburg performance, then on to the grand finale in the Marx-Engels Auditorium of Humboldt University, East Berlin. And from there, back to Amsterdam and a flight to New York on September 17.

After learning of Susan’s decision, I wondered if the tour would be rescheduled or canceled. Part of me was hoping it would be. But the more I thought about it and talked with mutual friends, the clearer it became that Timothy was dealing with Susan’s death by getting involved with life.

The phone call came: “Hi Mel! Well, ha ha ha … are you ready? Let’s meet in the TWA section at JFK’s international terminal.” I didn’t know what I’d say to him when we met. I knew Tim had been trying to have Susan moved from general population to the psychiatric hospital section. Her last decision must have devastated him.

The terminal was extremely crowded, our greeting low key. It was clear that Tim did not want to hear condolences. His nonstop talking all the way to Vienna confirmed that. But in a quiet moment on the train from Vienna to Linz, I caught his eye and said, “I’m sorry …”

He nodded thanks, lowered his head and cried, briefly, then quickly changed the subject. For the next eight days, whenever people expressed condolences, with lowered head Tim thanked them and quickly changed the subject.

The European Cyberspace Tour was intense, extreme, exhausting, manic. In the sleeper car on the train from Linz, Austria to Frankfurt, Germany, I laughed harder than I’d ever laughed before or since. Tim’s keynote address at Ars Electronica was televised and attended by the president of Austria, who walked out, offended by something that Tim said. I was standing outside the auditorium and couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I knew some of the content. We’d spent all morning researching the psychologists, artists, and engineers pictured on Austrian paper currency. He took those notes with him to the address. I don’t know what happened to them.

The other performances on the tour were ad lib, per audience. But the finale was different: the Marx-Engels Auditorium at Humboldt University, East Berlin, East Germany. We would drive to Berlin from Hamburg, a trip that just a few years ago would have been impossible: a fact that Timothy savored in every expression and pronouncement.

Entering West Berlin was inspiring. JFK’s “Ich bien ein Berliner” kept running through my head. Tim said the words, and got tears in his eyes. We arrived at the Castor Hotel about 5:00 P.M. After taking showers, we headed out. Traffic was congested as we moved toward the border between West and East Berlin. We drove by the Reichstag and a row of black crosses marking the spot where East Berliners had been shot trying to escape. Timothy was visibly moved and unusually silent.

Klaus, our German promoter, parked the van and we walked toward the Berlin Wall. Large sections of it were already gone, but there was a long section directly in front of us. On its Western side, the wall had been spraypainted with colorful graffiti, chunks of which were being sold by street vendors. Tim and I bought several, gifts for friends and family. On the way back to the van, Klaus took this picture of “Huck and Tom,” as he called us. The Wall and East Berlin served as background (see Figure 2).

The crossing from West to East was dramatic, and Tim bristled with excitement. West Berlin looked like any major American city: colorful buildings and people, billboards and neon signs, trees and parks. East Berlin was gray. The people looked somber, the buildings were monotone, and there was not one piece of advertising anywhere. Tim erupted with excitement when he spotted some blue on an oil barrel in a construction site.


Humboldt University was as dark and dreary as the rest of East Berlin–massive gray stone buildings, a few trees dimly lit in the fading autumn twilight. The Marx-Engels Auditorium was one of those massive gray buildings. The only color was the psychedelic poster announcing tonight’s program (see Figure 3). Just inside the ten-foot wood and iron doors were huge busts of Marx and Engels. Beyond the fathers of communism, one of the event’s sponsors had set up a bar to sell its product. The enormous grand staircase ascending from the expansive lobby was flanked by two ten-foot black papier-mache bottles of Space Beer. The juxtapositioning was not lost on Dr. Leary who, when he stopped laughing, asked Klaus to take a picture of the “historic” scene.

Four ten-foot doorways led into a cavernous, austere auditorium: unadorned walls, wooden seats, plain proscenium. Tim, Benn (our Dutch promoter), Klaus, and I went backstage;¬†Bryan Hughes started setting up his Virtual Reality (VR) slide show. Tim sat off by himself. That was his custom: to sit alone, “meditating,” before a performance. But this was different. He was obviously anxious, nervous about tonight. He was making notes, more extensive notes than he’d made for any performance. He was writing on Hotel Castor stationery (see Figures 4-7).


The stream-of-consciousness notes began with “Rauch” and ended with “Free the Elements.” He’d been told that the former meant something like “punk” in “cyberpunk,” which had been big at Ars Electronica, in Amsterdam and in Hamburg, but this was East Berlin. “Free the Elements” embodied the essence of the cheerful cricket’s cyberpunk message to the recently liberated East Germans. “The Elements” were the arts, the science, and the technology he saw as underwriting recent global political changes. His other thematic messages–Think for Yourself and Question Authority, the union of psychedelic and cybernetic via quantum mechanics and electronic media to create new, liberating paradigms, his personal and professional roles as “chaos engineer” and “empowerer” in Four Waves of Change–all depended upon some knowledge of who Timothy Leary was and what his activities had been over the last forty years, information that this audience really didn’t have.

Someone in the balcony sent hundreds of small rectangular pieces of paper flying throughout the auditorium. Each had the word “MEFF” printed on it. No one we asked had any idea what it meant: an omen. When Tim bounded onto the stage, he was greeted with thunderous applause, but within minutes, his rambling, disjointed talk was eliciting shouts of “What are you talking about?” and “Tell us something new” from an increasingly irritated audience.

Despite his notes, or maybe because of them, Timothy was rambling badly, thrown further off pace by the lack of laughs at appropriate spots. This audience was not tuned in to America’s sixties, the drug or electronic countercultural contexts that made Tim’s talks so entertaining. He recognized that and announced an intermission. While the audience stretched, we headed backstage, where Tim became a revolutionary Liberator.


On the wall adjacent to the doors were .75″ X 2″ letters:

Marx-Engels Auditorium

He decided to “liberate the name.”


I guarded the castle-sized doors while Tim, using Benn’s screwdriver, pried the letters off the wall. Klaus photographed the liberation (see Figure 8). We were all laughing hysterically. Some was nervous laughter. This was still East Berlin.


The liberated name was wrapped in an East German flag that just happened to be hanging around, waiting for mothballs. Timothy joked that he might give the flag and letters to the Smithsonian, or maybe to G. Gordon Liddy. (He didn’t. He had the letters–all except the “N”–mounted and made into a piece of art. The “N” rests with his ashes upstairs in my home, a gift from the Liberator.)


With the booty hidden in one of the bags, I opened the door a crack to see how the program was going. The media rushed forward as Tim patted me on the back, laughed, and said, “Welcome to the front line!” Beyond the cameras and reporters, the audience seemed quietly absorbed in the VR slide show. Klaus signaled¬†Bryan to wind it up. I was about midway through my remarks when Tim bounded on stage and thanked the audience for coming. They and I were surprised. Nevertheless, the European Cyberspace Tour was over. Not long after that, so was Tim’s last marriage and the relationship that he and I had shared.


July 1991. I was renting a house in Reseda, California. Without a steady stream of college lectures, summers were financially difficult for the Leary family, and this summer was especially so. When loans from mutual friends didn’t work out, Tim wanted me to give him $1,000 to help pay his rent. The phone conversation about the impossibility of that contribution ended with “So what if I played hardball and said … ‘unless you give me … ah … give DarDar [his wife] that $1,000, I don’t want to talk to you again.’ Think about that and call me back.” CLICK … dial tone.

I did not call him back.

March 1992. We ran into each other at the Home Media Expo in the Beverly Hills Hilton. He invited me to visit him the following afternoon. I agreed.

We were alone in the house, and the phone never rang once, very unusual. Timothy was obviously distracted and uncomfortable. In a quiet moment, he told that me his wife, Barbara, had left him. He looked devastated delivering the news, after which we sat in silence for a while, until Tim said he was going to take a little nap. I headed into the office to gather my stuff before leaving. Suddenly, he reappeared, stood in front of his desk, looked out the window, and began … as if he were reading from a teleprompter in the yard.

“You know, Mel, all my partners wish it would go on forever, but …”

I wasn’t paying much attention at first, but his tone and delivery were not characteristic, so I tuned in a bit more.

“They’ve always profited from their association with me, but they always turn on me afterwards … write nasty things. Your career hasn’t been hurt by your association with me, has it?”

“No, I guess not really …”

“See!” And suddenly I did. The Ex-Partner Speech was for me, but for his benefit.

I don’t remember what else he said until “well, I’m gonna read now,” after which he turned and walked out of the office. I listened to his receding footsteps and continued to pack my bag. I was ready to leave, except for some notes on the stone table in the solarium. As I picked them up, Tim reappeared. He hugged me, patted me on the back, said, “I had a great time with you,” turned, and walked back into the bedroom.

Aside from that summer’s “hardball” disconnect, our efforts to bring courseware and VR technology to undergraduate education had failed. I was no longer of use to Dr. Leary. I believe that there were also other reasons. My gender (male) and marital status (single) were now problematic for Timothy. Once Barbara was out of the picture, I had to be formally removed as well.

It was as if there was a very important part of the machinery
for interacting with other males that was missing upstairs.
–Peter Owen Whitmer in Legend of a Mind:
A Psycho-Biography of Timothy Leary

All of Tim’s “pals and partners” had been male, but he was married or with a woman at the time. The Ex-Partner Speech came the first time I was with him after Barbara had left for her new life. Timothy often made comments about how he didn’t want to be seen as an “old man with a faithful young male companion … like [William S.] Burroughs.” That would suggest that Tim was, like his fellow icon, a “fag,” a term he and Barbara used fairly frequently.

It was after the Ex-Partner Speech that I reread something Timothy had given me at the beginning of our relationship, when my daughter and I were spending Christmas and New Year’s 1988-1989 with him and his family. I was sitting on the apron of the stone fireplace in the living room when Tim walked by, handed me an unpublished typescript, and said, “Here. You must read this. They say I use people and then throw them away. You gotta know.”

The text was bound in a blue cover: The Legend of a Mind: A Psycho-Biography of Timothy Leary, by Peter Owen Whitmer, a practicing psychologist and old friend of Timothy, who had underlined and made notations throughout Dr. Whitmer’s typescript (see Figures 9-12).

His notations suggest that Whitmer et al. were accurate in most of their assessments. My own experience confirmed the validity of what he had said when giving me the manuscript. Timothy was a performance, and he performed on the big screen. Individual pixels were of importance only in their contribution to his performance. How important you were to that performance at any given time determined how close you got to him, and for how long, as well as what types of interpersonal diagnostic “tests” were conducted by Dr. Leary along the way.


Clinical Trials

The interpersonal tests were usually tailored to the subjects and what Timothy needed or wanted to know about them. Two of the most common were “Musical People” and “Hunt for the Glasses.” In any social gathering, he would always find reasons that this person had to change seats with that person: interpersonal manipulation to diagnose personalities. “Hunt for the Glasses” tested for suggestibility and compliance. Timothy would pretend to lose his glasses and then get everyone who would play, which was usually everyone, to hunt for them.



Dr. Leary’s experiments were as informative for him as they were for those involved, once they recognized they were involved.


Set and Setting. I was staying with Tim during my 1990 spring break. Barbara was away that week, so it was just the guys at home. Earlier in the week, he had made arrangements for me to visit his granddaughter. At that time, “DD” was living and working on a ranch in Corona, California. Tim was always upset by the fact that he had to travel to see her. What he hated was the time “lost” in driving to and from the visit. But when I was visiting, the relationship DD and I had developed, plus my relationship with Tim and “the family,” made me a perfect surrogate. This time (as usual), I was glad to take Tim’s place, but first, a test of character.


Momiko, a Japanese matriarch, had invited us to join her and her daughter for dinner at the Maple Room in Beverly Hills. Very expensive. Tim and I pooled our money: two broke PhD’s with $25 between them. We’d meet them for dessert.

Tim began filling me in on just how powerful and traditional Momiko and her family were. He also gave me a crash course in Japanese culture. By the time we left the house, he was giggling, and I knew a game was afoot.

Momiko and Mimi were seated in a booth, finishing their dinners. Tim sat with Momiko. I sat with Mimi. Momiko was a small, quiet woman with an intense X-ray gaze. Mimi was a very attractive young woman. She spoke about college. I assumed that she was going to be a freshman. It turned out she was a PhD candidate at Stanford considering her first professorial position, and was filled with trepidation and questions about life in the ivory tower. Our conversation took off, academically.

Tim was being Tim: erupting compliments while simultaneously surveying the restaurant, making sure he was seen and seeing who was there to be seen. He eventually excused himself to go talk with Flashbacks publisher Jeremy Tarcher, his wife, Shari Lewis (not eating lamp chops, as Tim reported), and her sister, Judith Krantz.


When we all rejoined the same conversation, it was about the next day’s trip. Tim had failed to mention these pre-existing plans when he’d engineered the date of my visit with his granddaughter. He, Momiko, Mimi, and her brother were driving to northern California the next day to experience VR with Jaron Lanier at VPL and with Eric Gullichsen at Sense8. I probably turned green: what an opportunity for an academic studying and writing about VR and cyber counterculture.

During a pregnant pause in the conversation, Momiko turned to me and asked softly, “Will you join us?”

Mimi and Tim immediately added their encouragement.

“But DD …”

“Ha, ha, ha … Gotcha!” Tim broke into a belly laugh.

“You set me up!” Timothy looked pleased with himself. He was still laughing when he told Momiko about my plans to visit DD and the “uncle” role I played.

“So are you coming with us?” asked Timothy the Skinner.

“No. I can’t. I’m sorry, Momiko.” Turning toward Timothy, “I promised your granddaughter …” Momiko acknowledged my decision with a smile.

Later that evening, when Tim and I got home, he congratulated me and confessed. He was plotting me, and proceeded to draw the grids and arrange the three dimensional axes: character and commitment, honor and loyalty, self and other.

Joyce Jive

James Joyce was one of Tim’s favorite authors. He had a large picture of Joyce taped to the inside of his clothes closet. I always thought he looked like the great Irish writer. Tim agreed and said it was just those “good Irish genes.”

We had spent one of those memorable evenings alone together in a NYC hotel room drinking and smoking, talking and laughing. We were just getting ready to head out to find an all-night deli–and some chocolate–when Dr. Leary asked, “Did James Joyce manipulate people?”

“Yea …” I told Tim about Robert Prezioso, a journalist who definitely had his eye on Nora, Joyce’s wife. Recognizing that, Joyce engineered situations in which Prezioso and Nora would be alone together. Nora, of course, would later tell her husband everything that had happened. After one such rendezvous, in which things did not go as Joyce had planned, he publicly humiliated Prezioso and reduced the man to tears. In telling the story, I’d used a hand gesture: right hand rotating clockwise, left hand simultaneously counterclockwise as if both were holding and unscrewing a ball six inches in diameter.

Suddenly, Timothy freaked. He began doing an exaggerated version of the gesture six inches from my face and screaming “Never do this!! Never do this to ME!!” Then he fell on his knees–arms raised, hands in prayer position–and began ranting about praying to “the Joyce god.”


The scene seemed scary, until I remembered the line in his first letter: “I am very suspicious of anyone, self-included, who adopts the ‘scary’ attitude.” But I have never really been able to figure out why he did what he did that night. Perhaps he just wanted to see how’d I react to him “losing it,” as James Joyce did with Robert Prezioso. Was “shock” part of the experiment’s protocol? Was this a “humiliation” test? His reaction and antics that evening were bizarre, even for Timothy (see Figure 13; Whitmer).

“So who was Timothy Leary, really?”

A life lived on the edge, performing the complexities, the strains the contradictions, the successful and the unsuccessful experiments that evolve American society and culture. He was that defiant “cheerful cricket” whose voice all societies and cultures need: someone to throw the Ticktockman off schedule, as did the Harlequin in Harlan Ellison’s short story “‘Repent Harlequin!’ Said the Ticktockman.” That Harlequin used jelly beans; Timothy Leary used everything but jelly beans. He played pop culture’s and the media’s clown savant who made us think, and made us laugh while doing it. He was also a man surrounded by loving family and friends and adoring fans, yet a man who seemed terrified of intimacy and was ultimately alone by “joyful” choice. On page 60 of Psycho-Biography, Whitmer analyzes the young Tim’s early influences. A lifetime later, Dr. Leary commented, or at least started to (see Figure 14).

Was the “re-” the beginning of “regret”? Perhaps. Given the life he lived, most people would find plenty of reasons and causes for regret. But then again, Dr. Timothy Leary was not most people.

“Realize,” “rejoice,” “remember”? Perhaps.

Etymologically, “re-” denotes backward, a direction Timothy Leary rarely went or even looked. Perhaps he realized that and left the “re-” incomplete intentionally.


“Remembering Dr. Timothy Leary” is always an act of rediscovery and recognition.


At this writing, is currently “closed for renovations.” New sites have begun: and

Works Cited

Gibson, William. Neuromancer. New York: Ace Books, 1984.

Horowitz, Michael, Karen Walls, and Billy Smith, eds. An Annotated Bibliography of Timothy Leary. Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1988.

Kopp, Sheldon B. If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him! New York: Bantam, 1972.

Leary, Timothy. Interpersonal Diagnosis of Personality: A Functional Theory and Methodology for Personality Evaluation. New York: Ronald Press, 1957.

_______. Flashbacks: A Personal and Cultural History of an Era: An Autobiography. Los Angeles: Tarcher, 1990.

The Moody Blues. “Legend of a Mind” In Search of the Lost Chord. London: Decca Record Company, 1968.

Seesholtz, Mel. “When the Quarks Come Marching Home, Again …” Mosaic XXI.2-3 (Spring 1988): 179-92.

Whitmer, Peter Owen. The Legend of a Mind: A Psycho-Biography of Timothy Leary. Unpublished manuscript, n.d.

Mel Seesholtz is tenured in the English Department at Penn State Abington, and also teaches in the American Studies and Science, Technology, and Society programs. He has coauthored several articles on TV talk shows and is currently working on a book dealing with the same-sex marriage issue and the rise of religious fundamentalism in America.

COPYRIGHT 2004 Popular Press

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