“Seth material” search engine (Jane Roberts)

[...] A widowed man with no children came from a nearby village to help out on the farm. He fell in love with her, and despite her condition, took her to his home village.

“The woman was a male, Italian, in a hill village. [...]

(“This afternoon I was wondering how Jim Poett was making out—not when the article will be published [in the Village Voice], but what he thinks of what he’s doing.”)

[...] As I wrote in the closing notes for the 929th session, I’ve been reminded once again of my feelings reincarnationally concerning those towns and villages. [...]

[...] Instead, on Monday and Tuesday nights Jane and I were interviewed—on tape—by Jim Poett of the New York City Village Voice. [...]

[...] And Tam was interviewed today by Jim Poett who is still tracking down witnesses relative to the article he’s doing on Seth and us for the Village Voice. [...]

(Today we were visited —unannounced—by a young man named Jim Poett, who has been assigned to interview Jane for The Village Voice. [...]

[...] A few mentioned the articles in the Village Voice.

[...] Now those dreams are going to help him in his own manner, for he is already working on some concepts involving the planting of fields that will benefit the people in his village.

In his particular village, the elders believe that there is some merit to being underweight. [...]

[...] From a small village. [...]

[...] A one-minute pause.) As you dwell in one particular city or town or village, you presently “live” in one small area of the psyche’s inner planet. [...]

(“What can you tell us about Jane’s recitation the other night about Levonshire, the village in England?”

Dictation: When you are in an airplane looking down upon the planet, then you see the mountain ranges and the valleys, the rivers, plateaus, cities, fields and villages. [...]

Were you born once in winter,
in Europe’s ice and snow,
when villages were dark at night
and wolves roamed the towering hills?
Or dark-skinned, did your swaddling cry
pierce Egypt’s early dawn?
How many birthdays come and gone,
how many homelands, each your own?
How many loves have whispered through
the patterns of your mind?
How many sons and daughters have grown
from your womb or loins?
What voices merge with mine
to wish you happy birthday,
and what loves within your past
lay out a feast of wine and cakes?

[...] You form the roads, your method of travel, the hills or mountains or oceans, as well as the hills, farms, and villages of the self, or of the psyche, as you go along.

[...] (A long pause at 10:07.) A neighboring town or village. [...]

[...] I had used Jane as a model, and in the painting she stood by a river, beneath trees; across the river could be glimpsed a village.)

[...] Yesterday Jane and I reread an article I’d filed last September, then forgotten about: In the area surrounding a certain village in the Dominican Republic, 38 girls have turned into boys at the onset of puberty. [...]

Many of the men involved did lead double lives then, known in their villages by one name, and in their brotherhoods by another. [...]

[...] In the same way, other dreamers would simply check with the dreamers of other villages or tribes—perhaps a hundred or even more miles distant. [...]

There was a village in the southern part of France. [...]