Page 19 - Edgar Cayce - The Sleeping Prophet
P. 19



Again he was concerned about a woman, who had no aura. Two days later, she was dead.



Since he was so acutely sensitive to everything about him, it was difficult to relax like the ordinary 

person. He had to make a continuous effort to close himself off. There were few ways he could detach 

himself. He liked to play cards, but once, without even glancing at the deck, he correctly read off fifty- 

two cards in succession to demonstrate that bridge would be a bore. Aside from the Bible, his only 

relaxers were fishing and gardening.




He loved to sit for hours on the pier back of his house, casting into a fresh-water lake. Children would 

come and talk to him as he fished, and he would tell them stories, remembered from his own fanciful 

childhood. He fished when it rained, and when it blowed or snowed, for here he found refuge from 

himself.



On the gloomiest days he would work in his garden, talking soothingly to the plants. He could make 

flowers grow where they had never grown before, caressing them tenderly, as though they were 

people. He was keenly aware of every aspect of the outdoors, observing all life with an appreciative 

eye. On a particularly exhilarating spring morning he noted: "Lovely day—new bird songs 

today—appears to be an unusual number of birds, or am I just aware of their presence?



The early morning song of the tomtit, the bluebird, lark, cat bird, robin, the mockingbird, and the new 

ones sound like canaries, but are red, with brown, and the female yellow and black, but lovely 

bird—used to call them weaver bird, but haven't seen any before in years and years. Oh, let's not 

forget the redwing, he is lovely."



There was an artless boyishness about Cayce that belied the mystic. As a young man, it kept 

bartenders from serving him, and poolroom operators from renting him their tables.




Looking for a job once, he walked into a shoe store, and began waiting on a customer. The manager, 

seeing him at work, absentmindedly sent the young stranger to the bank for change, and Cayce 

worked on for the rest of the day. That night, the puzzled manager asked how it all happened.



"Somebody asked me for something and I just gave it them," Cayce replied simply. He stayed on for 

eights months.



He was constantly described as an illiterate by writers he never saw, but this was clearly a misnomer. 

For as the years went by, the sixth-grade dropout learned much from the outside world. Statesmen, 

financiers, professors, and scientists discussed their problems with him. He visited their homes, 

rubbing elbows with the great and near-great, and they visited Him, drawn by curiosity and need. He 

read the newspapers, but rarely opened a book, except the Bible, which he read through each year, 

constantly finding it a new source of inspiration.



As it did Lincoln, it influenced his conscious writing, making it precise and pointed, though his 

unconscious speech always remained florid and involved. He had been a failure in school, leaving at 

fifteen, because he could not harness his mind, already showing signs of subconscious development, 

to a relatively primitive learning process, patently absurd in the face of his own pipeline to the





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