“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

I quickly scanned the first page, written in blue ink, and caught phrases like “in a pig’s ass,” and “quit this horseshit of writing it out,” and so forth. The whole script was written in just the way Fred talks. “I know you don’t believe me, Robert, but I am Seth. I’ve come to help you and Jane.” He nodded sympathetically when I told him Jane was quite ill and couldn’t see anybody. “I know.... I’m going to be quiet now and send her a message telepathically. You’ll be able to pick it up too.”

“If you don’t let me in your house I’ll just die,” Fred said. By now he’d taken two hardcover books from a bag, and given them to me. One by Jerszy Kosinski and one by Somerset Maugham. The latter was an expensive anthology. In one he’d written a note on a blank page to Jane, and to me in the other. Check their phrasing for a close approximation of the way he talked. Fred also handed me a thick, neatly tied package of brown paper and yellow string—The Christ Book, he said, which was for Jane and me, and for Prentice-Hall. I didn’t open it, and still haven’t. When I asked him where he was really from, he said Denver, and that his address was inside the package. It wasn’t on the other manuscript. Nor was I quick-witted enough to ask if he had a family, if anyone knew where he was, or what he did for a living—if he worked, or could—or how he found our house in the first place. I wondered if he was schizophrenic. He appeared to be harmless enough.