“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

(3:56. Jane showed me how both elbows have loosened up enough so that she can move her forearms down another inch or so—a good sign, I told her. Then she did some overall, very light movements. By 4:15 she was dozing at times as I did mail. The Six-Million Dollar Man came on TV at 5:00, as I started a nap after massaging her—dehypnotizing her—as usual. Jane fretted a little about not getting anything done, but I said to forget it. She ate a good supper, and I left at 7:15.

(I had no calls or other interruptions this morning as I worked on Dreams. The weather had warmed considerably—up to 23 degrees by the time I left for 330. Jane told me that after she got back to her room from hydro she had an excellent little experience, something like a waking dream, perhaps: She took some already cooked T-bone steak out of a refrigerator, and started eating it as she walked across a street. She’d cooked the meat the way she used to, she said. The event was quite significant, I thought, with its positive actions.

(Naturally the book has been endorsed by all the right scientists and organizations and reviewers. “Suppose those people had endorsed your stuff like that?” I asked Jane. “I’d disown it,” she replied. Actually, the beasts and birds and fishes pictured in the book all seemed to be regressive, rather than to show what true progress in evolution might be like. I thought it really was a reflection of the author’s fears more than anything else. Jane and I spent some little time discussing it. But then, it’s impossible to write about evolution without contradicting oneself—if one believes in it, I said. The same goes for the current theories of “the origin of life” in scientific terms. There’s a section on that in the book, full of words like perhaps, maybe, must have, some, probably, could have, and so forth. What a pity. I said to Jane, that in my hand I held the best man could do about understanding his origins at this time. Pathetic.

It would take some time to do so properly. As Ruburt suggested, the work is a kind of story. The author is basically too unsure of himself to call the book either fiction or nonfiction—thus he saves himself from answering many intelligent questions by saying this is conjecture, even while he takes shelter under the name of science.

(I said that Seth may have already begun his next book, and if so, fine. I told Jane she had many good works ahead of her through the years, and that it was time we determined upon a system that would allow her to produce them with as little delay as possible. She seemed to agree with all of this, adding that already we had Rembrandt and the new Seven in the works.