“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

[...] If you burn your finger it hurts immediately. [...]

The exaggerated fears carried threats not simply of scorn, but as you so clearly put it the other evening “Those people would burn us at the stake if they had the chance.” [...]

[...] She held a lighted cigarette also and it was burning closer to her fingers, so I took it away. [...]

[...] We burned incense during the evening, and while holding the seance sat at a coffee table and held hands.

[...] All the doctors seemed to agree that I had a kind of burned-out case of rheumatoid arthritis, with little active inflammation. [...]

(“How about the young couple trapped in the burning car, in the dream?”)

[...] If the church became upset with what Ruburt wrote or read, then Father Ryan burned one of his books, or argued with his poetry, for example, so all of that was living emotional content. [...]

[...] Jane remembered no reaction from her mother when her poetry came into conflict with the church, or when Father Rakin burned her books. [...]

[...] Imagine that you burned a hand severely. [...]

[...] They forced his mouth open and stuffed it with burning coals, as a starter. [...]

[...] If you are a good subject and your hypnotist a good practitioner, then blisters can arise on your skin if he tells you that you have been burned.

[...] A fire mentally seen that has warmth but does not burn destructively obviously means something else. [...]

[...] He would rather have burned anything that you have rather than store it in your family’s house. [...]

[...] Consciousness itself, when physically oriented, burns up chemicals. [...]

(Coming out of trance Jane remarked on how many cigarettes she burned up.)

[...] There was a fire burning in a circle of stone at our feet, and we all held long poles like broom handles. [...]

[...] Recently a group of these buildings near the Art Shop burned down in a spectacular fire.

As mentioned before, he was told to slow down, told he would burn himself out before he was twenty. [...]

[...] I would no more be a dull island of only sand and palms, or a neurotic landscape of burning lava, any more than I would be a snail. [...]

[...] Her cigarette had burned very short; stabbing her hand toward an ash tray on the coffee table, she struck it a glancing blow on the rim and knocked it aside. [...]