Prometheus Rising presents an eight circuit model of human consciousness (although only the first four are used to actually model human behaviour), and attempts to synthesise it with various disciplines such as Yoga, psychology a la Freud-Jung, Western occultism, and so on.
The style is reminiscent of the sort of "deep" discussions I had with my stoner friends when I was fifteen. Flitting from idea to idea, never pausing anywhere long enough to have someone call out one's shit, backing up arguments with pithy quotes and appeals to books no one has read, dubious anecdotes and examples, an overreliance on symmetry and geometry (if you can inscribe something in a dodecahedron, it must mean something, right?), constant appeals to take some drugs. Alas, such arguments are a lot less convincing as an adult.
The book starts off interesting enough, but increasingly becomes more frustrating. The author's style is to make bold assertions with little or no justification, or to support them with statements that sound like bullshit but requires a lot of effort on the part of the reader to prove them so. An example is the passage:
"Cromwell once addressed the Irish rebels, saying, “I beseech you, in the bowels of Christ, think it possible that you might be wrong.” History does not record that Cromwell ever addressed the same remark to himself."
A confident tone, a historical quote, a clever jab. This is very convincing writing. The reader is almost forced to swallow it and whatever argument it was supporting. However I had read quite heavily into the time period some ten years ago, and it didn't sit well with me. I could vaguely remember that Cromwell was deeply insecure about his role in history, but of course I didn't have any quotes ready to back it up. I searched around on the internet a bit, couldn't find what I was after, but I did notice that the quote in question was not addressed to the Irish rebels, but to the Church of Scotland. This may seem like petty nitpicking, and it is, but it does demonstrate how little effort it takes the author to talk out of his ass, and how much it would take the reader to verify the facts for themselves. This is dishonest writing.
Further in this train, are the author's constant predictions about the future -- most of humanity leaving Earth by 2028, life extension pills by 1997, the elimination of starvation "in our lifetimes" (note how safe the last claim is to make -- it's literally impossible to disprove the author until he's dead). Of course, predicting the future is a tricky business, and I'm not blaming the author for being a poor Cassandra. The point is the tone of complete confidence with which he laid down this and all his other claims. This either means that he was sincerely convinced that these things would definitely happen, and hence was an idiot (which I do not believe); or, most likely, he kept his reservations to himself and wrote with more conviction than he felt because other idiots seem to respond well to "confidence". It's distasteful.
The author is obviously well read, and talks shit about a very wide slew of disciplines, which makes the book an intimidating one to criticise. After all, I'm an idiot who hasn't read Jung, or Freud, or Korzybski, or whoever the fuck else, so what right do I have to argue against a man who speaks so fluently about all of these? Unfortunately the author occasionally stumbles on topics I do know a thing or two about, such as mathematical logic, wherein it turns out his comments are, at best, meaningless, and quite possibly completely off the mark. This, of course, casts doubt on all the other grand statements he makes, especially when it comes to things like Quantum Mechanics, on which one eighth of his model depends.
In general the quality of the book declines sharply after the author finishes with the four lower circuits, with which he actually attempts to explain human behaviour, and moves on to the four higher circuits, at which point he is basically rambling about the drug trips he had, and about how drug use will lead us into a golden age without war, starvation, or whatever. What is it about junkies that makes them so intolerably self-righteous? You like LSD, great. Go pop some pills, have a great time, maybe write a song if you have the talent in you. You don't see me going on about how tea will bring about universal love and understanding every time I brew a cup.
Also, he spells "exercise" with a "z". This becomes progressively more annoying as the book goes on.