What PiHKAL is and why it still matters
Few works have left such a mark on contemporary psychoactive culture as PiHKAL: A Chemical Love Story. The acronym stands for “Phenethylamines I Have Known And Loved,” which aptly summarizes the book’s hybrid nature: a novelized, autobiographical first half signed by Alexander Shulgin and his wife Ann, and a second technical half featuring hundreds of compounds, their syntheses, and their documented effects.
Shulgin, an American chemist who passed away in 2014, dedicated much of his life to synthesizing and characterizing psychoactive molecules, many of which were tested by himself and a small group of associates. That methodology—unthinkable today within any ethical or regulatory framework—turned his work into a unique, yet deeply problematic, archive. It is best read with both things in mind.
2C-B, in brief
2C-B is a psychedelic phenethylamine that Shulgin described as relatively short-acting—about four to six hours—with a highly sensory profile: it enhances colors, textures, sounds, and flavors. In his narrative, he contrasts it with MDMA, a substance he also worked with extensively, noting that 2C-B did not produce the same “blocking” effect on certain physical and emotional planes.
Beyond the literary anecdote, it is important to remember the real-world framework: 2C-B is a controlled substance in Spain and most other countries, its composition on the black market is unpredictable, and the margin between an active dose and an intense dose is narrow. Nothing that follows should be understood as a recommendation for use.
Ann Shulgin’s account as a document
The book’s most famous passage regarding this molecule is written in the first person by Ann Shulgin. It is not a clinical report; it is confessional literature. Ann narrates a domestic afternoon, a dose that Sasha describes as “moderate,” and a transition phase she experiences alone while observing herself. That intimate framing—the bathrobe, the warm bath, the waiting—is precisely what has made this text a classic of the genre.
The most interesting aspect is not the perceptual effects, but the psychological material that surfaces. Ann describes how, at first, her mind begins to “review” her worst flaws—carelessness, disorganization, insecurity—until she falls into a loop of self-loathing. And then, what she calls the Observer appears: an inner voice that cuts the judgment short and reminds her that she would not treat a friend that way. It is a scene that anyone familiar with introspection understands without needing to have taken anything.
The “Enemy” and the lesson Ann draws
The most cited part of the account takes place in the kitchen. Ann describes the appearance of a dark figure, perceived “with the mind’s eye,” which radiates hostility and superiority. She calls it the Enemy. Her first impulse is to fight it with hatred; her conclusion, however, is that facing evil with its own weapons is to enter its territory and lose. She opts for the opposite: closing her eyes, imagining she is cradling a child, and letting tenderness fill the space. The figure dissolves.
Read today, the episode functions more as a small moral parable than as a “side effect” of the substance. It fits a recurring idea in psychedelic literature: these states do not introduce new content so much as they amplify and dramatize what is already present within the person. The so-called “Enemy” says more about Ann’s biography than about the pharmacology of 2C-B.
Sasha’s notes: what they tell and what they hide
Alongside the intimate account, PiHKAL includes brief notes from Sasha himself at different quantities, written in his telegraphic style: a day among Rodin sculptures where the bark of eucalyptus trees and the faces of strangers were as intense as the art; a mosaic of colors shifting toward gold and pink; or an extreme body awareness under the full moon. These are evocative notes, yes, but also a reminder of the method’s limitations: subjective observations from a tiny, dedicated group, without a control group or independent measurement.
That is the double-edged sword of Shulgin. His work preserves information that would have otherwise been lost, but its value is testimonial, not scientific in the strict sense. Taking his figures as a practical reference would be to ignore precisely what his own history teaches about individual variability.
Critical reading
Three cautions for reading this text without idealizing it:
1. It is literature, not pharmacology. Ann’s account blends experience, memory, and style. Its beauty does not guarantee that the experience is representative or safe.
2. Context matters more than the molecule. The entire scene takes place in a familiar environment, with an experienced partner, and without unforeseen events. Most of the harm associated with these substances does not come from the idyllic “trip,” but from adulterated products, dosage errors, and hostile environments.
3. Romanticizing Shulgin has a cost. His figure is often presented as that of an endearing sage. He was also someone who normalized self-experiments that no ethics committee would approve today. Admiring his curiosity does not require copying his practices.
If you are interested in the phenomenon from the inside, the useful part of the Shulgins’ legacy is not the doses, but the attitude: the meticulous attention, the respect for the complexity of the mind, and the honesty in narrating the uncomfortable parts as well. That is something that can be inherited.
