In New York years ago he taught astrology to Norma, a retired Scranton schoolteacher living at Broadway and 72nd; she drew the wrong chart from a wind-blown Ephemeris, read it with total conviction, and the client wired her the promised $100 while Neville was present — yet she remained a professional astrologer, with Metropolitan Opera singers as clients, until she died.

A woman wrote to Neville this week describing a vision of a shaft of light with angels ascending, an ancient desert-dweller before her, and a voice asking who would believe his report and answering 'None...save but a few', followed by singing about herself and the words that all heard it on different levels.

A friend present at the lecture told him that about ten years earlier, while driving, everything became nothing but light with infinity falling in tiny tadpole-like forms, he heard within him "All is one," stopped the car by reflex, and told the angry passing drivers that everything was all right; Neville tells him he was genuinely illumined and instructs him how to arrest one of the falling lights.

Neville reads out and then expounds a letter he received a few weeks earlier from a dear friend — a humorous writer and long-time student of his message — describing a voice within proclaiming 'I am God' and a dream in which he threw golf balls into an empty desert to create homes, a golf course and a gate, and could only change a dilapidated house and streetcar by persisting.

In New York City this past May he told his audience they must be doers of the word, and a longtime student, estranged for two years from her son and daughter-in-law Mary, went home and for seven nights imagined reading two letters she had mentally written herself - one from her daughter-in-law and one from her grandson - and on the eighth morning received exactly those two letters in the mail; she gave him permission to tell the story, and his audience objected in the question period to the idea of writing one's own love letters.

Neville recalls a New York friend named Milo who confused everything he touched — he could not walk down an aisle at Carnegie Hall without bumping into everyone, and one night leaving Neville's home he shook his hand goodbye and walked straight into the closet.

At a San Francisco meeting a woman heard him, went home and for a week imagined the doorbell ringing and embracing her court-martialed brother; a week later he was honorably discharged and came home, and she rose in his audience of a thousand to tell it.

A man in the audience told Neville on Thursday that when he first heard him two years ago he had nothing, and now owns fifty pieces of property, thirty of them outright in his own name.