“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

[...] Had he put the cart before the horse? [...]

They were not in a way quite as isolated then, however, for horses and carts and so forth could travel on mountain passes, and were abundant in the entire area—while today, for example, the roads are poor and sometimes not passable for automobiles. [...]

[...] Ruburt came across the same fields with his horse, led the horse into the barn, and found Mark and his mistress.

[...] Wayne represented feelings about the male that you received in your background from your father, and through boyhood movies, in which the male could afford affectionate behavior or conversation—only with his horse (with amusement). [...]

(To Carl:) You must learn to reflect upon your own emotional states, to ride the emotions like a rider upon a horse rather than the other way around—and to show gentleness, to reflect more upon your own attitudes. [...]

(To Bette Z.) And you cannot get up on your high horse over the idea of love and sharing either. [...]

[...] Your worries interrupt you far more, and those interruptions that do occur are often gift horses, providing in another form precisely what you need in your work at that time.

(This material concerns a certain horse race in late August; Ferd had predicted Steve would win a bet on this race.)

He once, and not purposely, broke a man’s back in an accident involving horses. [...]

[...] With Sue’s book there have been other opportunities—people who wanted the story from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, and the talk from Prentice of a new campaign publicizing Ruburt’s work. [...]

[...] You were not professionally a cowboy, but you dealt with transportation involved with horses. [...]

[...] It may be beating a dead horse, but let me say that I’ve told Jane time and again that I don’t consider her physical condition an acceptable price to pay for any sort of creative achievement. [...]

[...] They are not horses to drive you. [...]

[...] “This was in some kind of woven sack; a double one like you’d throw over a horse…. [...]

[...] For another, I refuse to sound like a hoarse horse. [...]

[...] They were translucent, of different colors, tiny horses that were not round as a marble is round, but with rounded simple lines. [...]

[...] It was hilly and rocky behind the village, but there was a stream up there, and they went up with horses and buckets. [...]

What he sees is something between a horse and a dog and resembles neither. [...]

[...] Jimmy (long deceased) was a kind and outgoing landlord and restaurateur who lived with his wife and three children on the second floor of the old converted horse barn and carriage house in back of the apartment house he owned at 458 West Water Street, where Jane and I lived. [...]

[...] He drank and gambled at the local casinos and played the horses at Saratoga Springs’ famous racetrack. [...]

[...] (I was especially fascinated by horses, but have yet to ride one!) While a sophomore I wrote a novel that I typed on the same kind of yellow paper and bound into a book, I even tried—unsuccessfully—to sell it. [...]

[...] There were other details, but the interesting thing was that Mrs. Lowe told me afterward that she was really crazy about horses, and that Greece and France were the only countries in which she had any great interest.