Often covers become fused with a book’s content due to a reader’s affection. But there are times when art and content are perfectly matched, as is the case with the six Castaneda titles collected here. 

The method used to achieve the near-surrealist scenes is so simple and ring quite true for psychedelic endeavors undertaken in the desert: the perception of scale is a matter of one’s perspective. As well, in each, there is a clarity regarding that stark but ravishing beauty one encounters in those environs.

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Tales of Power

Author: Carlos Castaneda
Publication date: 1974
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Cover art: Peter Schaumann
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Excerpt from the chapter 1
He put his hand over my notebook and told me to close my eyes and become silent and without thoughts. He said that the call of the moth in the chaparral was going to aid me. If I paid attention to it, it would tell me of imminent events. He stressed that he did not know how the communication between the moth and myself was going to be established, neither did he know what the terms of the communication would be. He urged me to feel at ease and confident and trust my personal power. 
       After an initial period of impatience and nervousness I succeeded in becoming silent. My thoughts diminished in number until my mind was perfectly blank. The noises of the desert chaparral seemed to have been turned on as I became more calm. 
       The strange sound that don Juan said was made by a moth occurred again. It registered as a feeling in my body and not as a thought in my mind. It occurred to me that it was not threatening or malevolent at all. It was sweet and simple. It was like a child’s call. It brought back the memory of a little boy that I once knew. The long sounds reminded me of his round blond head, the short staccato sounds of his laughter. The most anguishing feeling oppressed me, and yet there were no thoughts in my mind; I felt the anguish in my body. I could no longer remain sitting and slid to the floor on my side. My sadness was so intense that I began to think. I assessed my pain and sorrow and suddenly found myself in the midst of an internal debate about the little boy. The sputtering sound had ceased. My eyes were closed. I heard don Juan standing up and then I felt him helping me to sit up. I did not want to speak. He did not say a word. I heard him moving by me. I opened my eyes; he had knelt in front of me and was examining my face, holding the lantern close to me. He ordered me to put my hands over my stomach. He stood up, went to the kitchen and brought me some water. He splashed some on my face and gave me the rest to drink. 
       He sat down next to me and handed me my notes. I told him that the sound had involved me in the most painful reverie. 
      “You are indulging beyond your limits,” he said dryly.


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