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THERE IS A RIVER BOOK

Saturday, July 20, 2019


Story of Edgar Cayce: There Is a River Paperback – January 1, This item:Story of Edgar Cayce: There Is a River by Thomas Sugrue Paperback $ The Edgar Cayce Remedies: A Practical, Holistic Approach to. Editorial Reviews. Review. ''An amazing story The facts as he records them are . Note there were 3 or 4 covers on this book, I guess each one was a reprint of the earlier version. However they did not contain all of the info of the original one. I read this book when I was in aprox. 5th grade. I was young then so I never investigated further but now that I'm older I am reading everything I can about this .


There Is A River Book

Author:MOSHE LILLER
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There is a River book. Read 97 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. This work has been selected by scholars as being culturally import. Join Reader Rewards and earn your way to a free book! . To read There Is a River cannot help being an adventure.” —Mary Ross, New York Herald Tribune. LibraryThing Review. User Review - knightlight - LibraryThing. This book was written by a college friend of Cayce's son shortly after Edgar's death in

But the next sentences of the opening paragraph of the Preface were even more revealing.

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De Puysegur's famous subject Victor went into a sleep instead of a convulsion while being magnetized, and in that state showed remarkable intelligence and apparent powers of clairvoyance. Further experiments brought the same results. Other patients, when put to sleep, showed like powers.

Walter Bromberg, in 'The Mind of Man', says: 'Dull peasants became mentally alert, and could even foretell events or understand things ordinarily obscure to them.

Somnambulism made medical diagnoses in other patients brought before them, and foretold the future. The magnetizer of the s merely brought his patient before a competent somnambulist, and waited for the diagnosis. If only modern science had such aids!

The clairvoyance of somnambulists became a fascinating game. Magnetizer had set me off, in error, to the narratives of "UFO Contactees" George Adamski and Travis Walton, who had been shocked by the powerful magnetic force around the Flying Saucers they had accidentally approached too close, or even touched, in and , in California and Arizona, before they were both taken inside the Space Ships.

But Edgar Cayce's phenomenal abilities, while in his self-hypnotic Sleep States, was really not that much different to the actual physical facts I had at first supposed was the meaning of 'magnetizer'. A physical, bodily power rushes through him, whether it was what his friends and doctors might have described as the 'subconscious' or 'super-consciousness', and the well-documented descriptions of the experiences of Adamski and Walton, among others, inside silent aircraft sailing swiftly to the Moon and Venus and back in a few short, safe hours.

That they are both abilities and narratives many people would say are impossible, but true to many others of us, as proven by many other eyewitnesses and data, makes for a stronger case for credibility than ever. Sugrue provides a quote, "The medical fraternity of the country is taking a lively interest in the strange power said to be possessed by Edgar Cayce of Hopkinsville, Ky.

Stenographers recorded his precise words, in a clear and almost dreamy voice, for many drugs and therapies, and they are recorded in the vast archives of the Association for Research and Enlightenment, A. In fact, the thousands of people he cured over those many years were witnessed by astonished doctors and they are testified by the patients themselves; establishing what Cayce himself said was a miraculous gift directly from God as the most convincing and believable of all the amazing men and women of that generation.

It's not a matter of belief or faith, as it might be with UFO Contacts and Abductions, which are experienced almost privately or witnessed by only a few people. As he grew it became clear that he was different from them in other ways too.

He was fifteen now, but where other boys of his age were looking forward impatiently to manhood, Jonathan was content to believe that he would live at the inn forever with his mother and father, and wished for nothing else. He was now sixty, which was ancient for a Bliss. These last few years he was sometimes so weak that he lay in bed for two or three days at a time, eyes closed.

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He was not sleeping—no, it was a place beyond sleep that he visited in these periods. Margot took his sinking spells calmly. She kept the fire in to dry the air, tilted cooled broth between his lips, brushed his hair, and smoothed his eyebrows. Other people fretted to see him suspended so precariously between one liquid breath and the next, but Margot took it in her stride.

And he was. The river had seeped into him and made his lungs marshy. It was solstice night, the longest night of the year. For weeks the days had been shrinking, first gradually, then precipitously, so that it was now dark by mid-afternoon. As is well-known, when the moon hours lengthen, human beings come adrift from the regularity of their mechanical clocks.

There is a River: The Story of Edgar Cayce

They nod at noon, dream in waking hours, open their eyes wide to the pitch-black night. It is a time of magic. And as the borders between night and day stretch to their thinnest, so too do the borders between worlds. Dreams and stories merge with lived experience, the dead and the living brush against each other in their comings and goings, and the past and the present touch and overlap.

Unexpected things can happen. Did the solstice have anything to do with the strange events at the Swan? You will have to judge for yourself. Now you know everything you need to know, the story can begin.

The drinkers gathered in the Swan that night were the regulars. Gravel diggers, cressmen, and bargemen for the most part, but Beszant the boat mender was there too, and so was Owen Albright, who had followed the river to the sea half a century ago and returned two decades later a wealthy man.

There Is a River: The Black Struggle for Freedom in America

Albright was arthritic now, and only strong ale and storytelling could reduce the pain in his bones. They had been there since the light had drained out of the sky, emptying and refilling their glasses, tapping out their pipes and restuffing them with pungent tobacco and telling stories. Albright was recounting the Battle of Radcot Bridge. After five hundred years any story is liable to get a bit stale, and the story tellers had found a way to enliven the telling of it.

Not a thing was known about him except that he was a boy, at Radcot Bridge, and he died there. Out of this void came invention. At each retelling the drinkers at the Swan raised the unknown boy from the dead in order to inflict upon him a new death. He had died countless times over the years, in ways ever more outlandish and entertaining.

When a story is yours to tell, you are allowed to take liberties with it—though woe betide any visitor to the Swan who attempted the same thing. Tonight Owen Albright conjured him in the garb of a young entertainer, come to distract the troops while they awaited their orders. Juggling with knives, he slipped in the mud and the knives rained down around him, landing blade down in wet earth, all but the last one, which fell plumb into his eye and killed him instantly before the battle had even begun.

The innovation elicited murmurs of appreciation, quickly dampened so the tale could continue, and from then on the tale ran pretty much as it always did. Afterwards there was a pause. Jonathan had been listening closely. He was smiling—Jonathan was a boy who was always smiling—but he sounded wistful.

He was not stupid, but school had been baffling to him, the other children had laughed at his peculiar face and strange ways, and he had given it up after a few months. He had not mastered reading or writing. The winter regulars were used to the Ockwell lad, with all his oddness.

He opened his mouth and waited, agog, to hear what emerged from it. Nothing did. His face screwed tight with laughter and his shoulders squirmed in hilarity at himself. He was pale and had been silent all evening. Nobody expected a story from him in his frail state, but at the prompting of his son he smiled mildly and looked up to a high corner of the room where the ceiling was darkened from years of woodsmoke and tobacco.

It was late for a newcomer. Whoever it was did not rush to come in. The cold draft set the candles flickering and carried the tang of the winter river into the smoky room. The drinkers looked up. Every eye saw, yet for a long moment none reacted. They were trying to make sense of what they were seeing. The man—if man it was—was tall and strong, but his head was monstrous and they boggled at the sight of it.

Was it a monster from a folktale? Were they sleeping and this a nightmare? The nose was askew and flattened, and beneath it was a gaping hollow dark with blood. As sights went, it was horrifying enough, but in its arms the awful creature carried a large puppet, with waxen face and limbs and slickly painted hair. What roused them to action was the man himself.

He first roared, a great bellow as misshapen as the mouth it emerged from, then he staggered and swayed. A pair of farmhands jumped from their seats just in time to grab him under the arms and arrest his fall so that he did not smash his head on the flagstones.

At the same time Jonathan Ockwell leapt forward from the fireside, arms outstretched, and into them dropped the puppet with a solid weightiness that took his joints and muscles by surprise. Returning to their senses, they hoisted the unconscious man onto a table.

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Then when he was laid down and straightened out, they all stood around and raised their candles and lamps over him. There was a round of indistinct murmurs and much frowning. Margot elbowed her way to the top of the table and studied the man. Not with his face in that state. Nor pouring anything down his throat.

They were fascinating little books but I didn't really understand who he was or where all this information was coming from, and therefore whether it was really true and accurate and could be trusted.

There were always people around who said they understood it a lot better than me, but then they were into Communes too, and esoterica like EST and Maharishi Yogi and gurus whom I only heard about briefly in many glancing peripheries in-between my own studies of theatre, Sitting Bull, and Carlos Castaneda and classical literature.

Edgar Cayce was just one more of the amazing people and things in our world like Easter Island and psychic phenomena and flying saucers.

I had actually been looking for some UFO books I had read years ago by Zechariah Sitchin and Immanuel Velikovsky and Erich von Danniken, but instead there was a whole shelf or two by my old old friend Cayce, about everything under the Sun and the Moon. He was obviously a lot more popular than the handful of studies about Roswell and even astronomy.

I was glad to see there was a biography, written by a man who knew Cayce, and published in before Cayce died in Glancing inside to see if it was just a lot more baloney like the many, many shelves and whole sections of the store on 'New Age' self-help love, I was pleased to read a well-written study of the man's life which I knew so little about; and it even started out with a relevant passage to my interest in the relationship of Spaceships and psychic consciousness.

I had not realized what Cayce did to discover his astonishing insights into ancient and prehistoric events about Atlantis and the Egyptian Pyramids, etc. But the next sentences of the opening paragraph of the Preface were even more revealing. De Puysegur's famous subject Victor went into a sleep instead of a convulsion while being magnetized, and in that state showed remarkable intelligence and apparent powers of clairvoyance.

Further experiments brought the same results. Other patients, when put to sleep, showed like powers. Walter Bromberg, in 'The Mind of Man', says: 'Dull peasants became mentally alert, and could even foretell events or understand things ordinarily obscure to them.

Somnambulism made medical diagnoses in other patients brought before them, and foretold the future. The magnetizer of the s merely brought his patient before a competent somnambulist, and waited for the diagnosis. If only modern science had such aids!

The clairvoyance of somnambulists became a fascinating game.Details if other: Error rating book. Edgar Cayce While I myself was at first very much enamoured by the fantastic, miraculous nature of the Edgar Cayce life story, along with the rather heady intellectual concept that inner truth can transcend the limitations of physicality, space and time, in the many years of my own subsequent spiritual practise as a student of Sri Chinmoy I have come to reinterpret his life story as a personally inspiring account of a man of deep faith and conviction, who first and foremost attempted to live the truths that he himself spoke.

I had not long finished high school, a time of my life best forgotten, and best summarised as an extended sentence in a place where you learn much about what you are not—a most unsatisfying partial answer to the only question that brings true satisfaction: Cayce also believed in reincarnation and this too left him conflicted as it is not accepted in Christianity.