SF Weekly asks Krippner to assess an eminent scholar's summation of the state of the field:
Since Charles Richet first applied statistics to psychical research [in 1884], no experimental procedure has emerged which would invariably produce the same results, no matter who followed it. Furthermore, no mechanism underlying [psychic phenomena] has been discovered.... Finally, no practical use of ESP or psychokinesis has been validated by laboratory research.
Cindy Barrymore/Newscom
Grateful Dead drummer Bill Kreutzmann says “you could see anything” around Stanley Krippner.
Related Content
More About
Krippner's milky blue eyes light up. "Yes!" he cries. "Yes, this is a wonderful summary! Who wrote that?"
Actually, he did. Back in 1977.
The professor smiles and then laughs. "But that was so articulate! I must have written it on one of my good days." He shakes his head. "Unfortunately, it's true. I will have to stand by my statement."
The odds of randomly guessing the five-digit number sequence 25132 are 100,000-to-1. That was the numeral parapsychologist Charles Tart randomly selected from the RAND book of random numbers. He then wrote 25132 in magic marker on a slip of paper that he placed atop a ceiling-level shelf in his sleep laboratory, where a woman who claimed to regularly undergo out-of-body experiences would spend the night hooked to an EEG. At 6:04 a.m, "Miss Z" awoke and called out the number 25132.
Tart published his paper in 1968. He says that his critics at that time theorized that Miss Z had entered the lab with a "collapsible miniature periscope" concealed within her vagina. This criticism was not repeated when Krippner attempted a version of experiment with a male student in his Brooklyn lab. The male subject subsequently claimed to have looked down at the shelf upon a print of a sunset. Whether he did so is uncertain — but it was a print of a sunset Krippner placed on the shelf.
Lab subjects floating outside their bodies and glancing down at shelves violates just about every established principal of physics. But nothing came of it. Neither psychologist delved further into the matter; Tart, in fact, didn't learn Krippner had bolstered his work for another 40 years.
The laws of the universe have not been toppled. But neither has Krippner's desire to explore alternative hypotheses. Yes, he concedes, his work in the dream lab was never adequately duplicated — but what about later analysis of his data claiming telepathic "accuracy was significantly better during calm nights with little sunspot activity and few electrical storms than 'stormy' nights marked by high geomagnetic activity"? How much sunspot and geomagnetic activity was taking place during those subsequent, failed attempts to match his success?
It's these kinds of gnawing questions that keep Krippner from agreeing with the skeptics 100 percent of the time. Yes, ESP debunkers' arguments are logical. But, unlike Krippner, they weren't struck with the realization his uncle Max was dead moments before grieving relatives phoned. Krippner lists this 1946 incident as "my first paranormal experience." They didn't envision the death of President Kennedy, as Krippner did, while undergoing a 1963 psilocybin session under Timothy Leary, months before the grim events in Dallas. "It's my own reinforcement history that has made me an advocate instead of a counter-advocate," Krippner says. "If I didn't have these personal experiences inside and outside the laboratory, my natural inclination would be extremely skeptical about all of this."
And the skeptics never sat down with Amyr Amiden. In 1994, Krippner, student Michael Winkler, and a team of Brazilian researchers spent a bizarre interlude with the self-professed psychic. Over the course of three days in Brasilia, Amiden allegedly "apported" — that is, spontaneously produced — so many stones and jewels and coins and other trinkets that a rule was devised: Whoever was closest to the object when it hit the ground got to keep it. "There was a crackling sound — and it made the room smell like a lighter," recalls Winkler. "I was right next to [Amiden]. It's not like he had anything up his sleeves — his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. To this day, I just can't explain it."
Neither can Krippner, but Amiden had an idea. Inserted into the marginalia of the paper Krippner and half a dozen researchers produced, in Krippner's own hand, is the following passage: "[Amiden] claimed that 'green people' visited him when he was a child and that he was 'transported' to their planet." Another member of Krippner's party later wrote that Amiden claimed to "bilocate" to multiple places simultaneously, and occasionally ran into himself. He also supposedly tied himself to his bed while sleeping, lest he float out the window.
Amiden spurned Krippner's plea to undergo further examination in a controlled environment, while under the eye of a trained magician, and on camera (he claimed he was medically unfit to do so). The mystic was extraordinarily displeased with Krippner's reportage of their time together. The professor's responsible use of words like "possible," "alleged," and "ostensible" was not well-received. "Amyr is very upset. He has forbidden me from writing about him," says Krippner, shaking his head. "But I don't think you'll be taking any chances if you write about him yourself."
These warnings may not be so idle. Not long after Amiden grew furious with Krippner and severed their ties, a burglar broke into the professor's Bay Area apartment. Krippner was cleaned out — and all of the Amiden "apports" in his home were stolen. "I would link Amyr's warning with the theft," says Krippner. Then he smiles. "If I were a superstitious person."
