Roszak's thesis was elegant and, in 1969, genuinely brave: the real revolution was not political but epistemological, a rejection of what he called "the myth of objective consciousness" — the technocratic assumption that only expert-mediated, quantified, instrumentally rational knowledge counts as knowledge at all. The counterculture's fumbling experiments with mysticism, psychedelics, communal living, and Eastern philosophy were not sideshows to the antiwar movement but its deepest current, an attempt to reclaim modes of consciousness that technocracy had declared inadmissible. Fifty-seven years later, the diagnosis reads like prophecy. The technocracy Roszak described — governance by expert consensus, the quiet authority of systems too complex for democratic challenge — did not retreat. It metastasized. It became algorithmic. It learned to wear a hoodie. What he could not foresee is that the counterculture's own children would build the most comprehensive technocratic apparatus in human history and call it liberation. Silicon Valley's founding mythology is saturated with the very energies Roszak celebrated: the communalism, the psychedelic experimentation, the distrust of institutions, the preference for direct experience. Stewart Brand, Steve Jobs, the Whole Earth Catalog lineage — these are not betrayals of the counterculture but its legitimate heirs, which is far more damning.

The book's blind spots are structural, not incidental. Roszak writes as though the counterculture is overwhelmingly white, male, and middle-class because it was — but he never interrogates this as a limitation. The civil rights movement appears as context, not content. Feminism is essentially absent. The most radical cultural dissenters of the 1960s — Black artists, Indigenous activists, queer communities operating without the safety net of affluent parentage — are offstage. This matters not just as a moral accounting but as an analytical failure: Roszak's counterculture is a rebellion of the comfortable against comfort, and his inability to see its class character weakens his predictions about its staying power. A movement that can be reabsorbed by the parental class it claims to reject is not a revolution. It is a gap year.

His treatment of psychedelics is the passage that hits most differently now. Roszak was cautiously sympathetic but warned that without "a cultivated mind and cultural grounding," psychedelic experience becomes "a superficial and even destructive fixation." He was writing about acid in the Haight. Read it today against the backdrop of the psychedelic medicalization boom — psilocybin clinics, ketamine startups, MDMA therapy protocols shepherded through FDA review — and the irony is exquisite. The visionary experience Roszak wanted to protect from technocratic capture has been captured, patented, and assigned a billing code. The shamanic tradition he invoked in his final chapter now has a venture capital funding round. Meanwhile, the less clinical psychedelic legacy — microdosing as productivity hack among tech workers — completes the circle with a neatness that would have made him ill.