“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

An apple can be red, round, weigh so much, be good to eat, sit in a basket, but be natural on a tree. It can be tart or sweet. You can find one on the ground, or on a table, or in a pie. None of these things are contradictory to the nature of an apple. You do not ask: “How can an apple have color and be round at the same time?”

(9:45.) Give us a moment … A young man was here last evening. He possesses great mastery of the guitar. As he played, it was obvious that any given composition “grew” from the first note, and had always been latent within it. An infinite number of other “alternate” compositions were also latent within the same note, however, but were not played last night. They were quite as legitimate as the compositions that were played. They were, in fact, inaudibly a part of each heard melody, and those unheard variations added silent structure and pacing to the physically actualized music.

So you look back through the historical past. All of the counterparts alive as contemporaries then form, together, a musical composition in what you think of as a present; and once that multidimensional song is struck then its past ripples out behind it, so to speak, and its future sings “ahead.” But the song is being created from its beginning and its end simultaneously. In this case, however, it is as if each note has its own consciousness and is free to change its portion of the melody. Yet all are in the same overall composition, in “time,” so that time itself serves as the scale (gesturing) in which the [musical] number is written — chosen as a matter of organization, focus, and framework.

Now in music the pauses are as important as the sounds. In fact, they serve to highlight the sounds, to frame them. The sounds are significant because of their placement within the pauses or silences. So the portions of your psyche that you recognize as yourself are significant and intimate and real, because of the inner pauses or silences that are not actualized, but are a part of your greater being.

(All very intent, leaning forward, eyes wide and dark:) In some manner, even a tragic composition of merit transcends tragedy itself. The composer was exultant in the midst of the deepest emotions of tragedy, or even of defeat. In such cases the tragedy itself is chosen as an emotional framework upon which the psyche plays. The framework is not thrust upon it, but indeed chosen precisely because of its own characteristics — even those of despondency, perhaps.

(Still in the same intense manner:) This does not mean that a tragic life is more vital than a happy, simple one. It just means that each individual is involved in an art of living. There are different themes, instruments, melodies — but existence, like great art, cannot be confined to simple definitions.

This is obviously not the case with all suicides¹⁰ or would-be suicides, or all risk-takers. But those elements are there. A person who dies at 17 may have experienced much greater dimensions of living, in your terms, than someone who lives to be 82. Such people are not as unaware of those choices as it seems.

Take a hypothetical young woman named Mary, who is partial to the kinds of experiences just mentioned. Temperamentally, she seeks out crisis situations. She may initiate suicide attempts. On the other hand she may entertain no such ideas, but be murdered at the age of 17.

(Forcefully:) We are certainly not condoning the murderer — but no slayer kills someone who does not want to die, either.

He picks, or she picks, victims as intuitively as the victim seeks out the slayer. On the other hand, Mary’s experiences in life may make her change her mind, so to speak, so that at 17 she encounters a severe illness instead, from which she victoriously recovers. Or she might narrowly miss being murdered when a bullet from the killer’s gun hits the person next to her. On an entirely different level and in a different way, she might have no such experiences but be a writer of murder mysteries, or a nurse in surgery. The particular variations that one person might play are endless. You cannot consciously begin to alter the framework of your life, however, unless you realize first of all that you form it. The melody is your own. It is not inevitable, nor is it the only tune that you can play.

(I knew that if I encouraged her she’d go back into the session. I was tempted, but it was after midnight; we had ESP class coming up in 19 hours, with much to do in the meantime. And my writing hand was getting tired.

(“Tonight I did have the feeling — for the first time — that ‘Unknown’ Reality was heading toward an end,” Jane said, “that Seth will soon be getting ready to tie it up, and incorporate the ending with the beginning … Not right away; but it’s the first time I’ve felt that.”

(Actually, she now had many channels open from Seth. It seemed that every topic we mentioned engendered another one. Seth even had “a bunch of stuff” available on Jane, myself, and music. This included data on my starting to take violin lessons when I was eight years old — an event I hadn’t thought of for what seemed to be decades [it took place in 1927], but which I was able to instantly recall as soon as Jane mentioned it.)

2. Every so often I’ve referred to the inconveniences of apartment living for us, especially those involving that ever-present, ever-growing traffic noise. During break for the 726th session, which was held on December 16, 1974, I wrote that we planned to start looking for a house of our own as soon as I finished the illustrations for Dialogues. Our need for a certain kind of privacy and quiet has become very strong. At the same time, we want to avoid the sense of isolation that might result if we move into the country. I’d probably like that, but realized some time ago that such a situation would bother Jane considerably.

“Even in the country, houses can have a closed quality if the mountains or trees press too tightly. The land that you own is important, but the visible land that you do not own is also, and you should be in sight of a mountain or some open area, while still having a private ‘secret’ area also.”

5. In very gentle ways, Jane did eventually use some of Seth’s impressions relative to both people — but cast in her own vernacular — for Chapter 18 of Politics. In that chapter she also began presenting, again from her viewpoint, material on our house-hunting activities; she plans to continue doing so in subsequent chapters.

And in a note for that session I wrote: “Years ago, when Jane and I began living in Sayre, Pennsylvania, not long after our marriage in 1954, I began telling myself that before I reached the age of 40 I’d know whether I wanted to concentrate upon writing or painting — but that if I’d failed to do so before that date, I would then decide upon one or the other of those creative arts. I turned 40 in 1959 — and chose painting.”

8. It’s no coincidence that Seth used the Pathetique here in his material. The symphony is, probably, Jane’s and my favorite musical composition. We “discovered” the Pathetique during our courtship 21 years ago, and many times during the following months we listened to the two scratchy old records that carried the piece. But even then we were impressed — awed — by its creative power, over and above the obvious emotional connotations we put upon it.