Phoning Neville's publisher G.&J. (Grace and Jack Weeks), Barry learned Neville had left New York, was living in Los Angeles, and was lecturing twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, at the Wilshire. [Date evidence: c. spring 1958, same discovery chain as the library-book reading] [Place: Los Angeles]

Barry's first-hand account identifies the publishers as G. & J., Grace and Jack Weeks; their reply directed him to Neville's Monday and Thursday lectures at the Wilshire in Los Angeles.

A woman recounts that a year before this lecture, her husband decided to sell their home; though real-estate agents tried unsuccessfully for four months, the house did not sell until she began deliberately imagining herself already living in a new home in West Hollywood, sleeping in that mental state for four consecutive nights -- on the fifth day a stranger toured the house once and bought it outright, giving the family only ten days to move out. The couple then set an equally demanding image for their next home -- a two-unit house with separate living rooms north of the Sunset Strip, large enough for extended family and their many pets -- which every realtor told them did not exist in that area at any price they could afford.

Five years earlier, while his daughter was in high school and he had risen early to make her breakfast and lunch and then gone back to his library to read his Bible, his wife slept late and woke from an experience in which her hand was held by the hand of death, with Neville sitting on the bed recognising death intimately; when she said she was not afraid to die but had unfinished business, the hands disengaged.

In the same letter recounting his courtship (see event 6835), the gentleman revealed that he had not had a drink of alcohol in nine years by the time he wrote, though he had "paid the price" during his own long search for God. Neville uses the admission to argue that the alcoholic's craving is really a misdirected spiritual hunger — a genuine thirst for truth wrongly clothed in a bottle — pointedly contrasting it with those who never drink yet have not truly begun their own search.

Answering an audience question, Neville recounted that a professional writer had told him, the previous Friday, about a friend named Eddie whom he had met in the flesh some two years earlier. Recently, while showering, the writer recalled that six years before, a story had been dictated to him inwardly in a similar manner, and it suddenly struck him that the fictional story's central character was identical to Eddie in flesh and blood — confirming for him that characters he had invented as a writer were, in fact, walking the world as real people.

A writer tells Neville that, recalling a recent experience of a story seeming to be dictated to him, he suddenly remembered a nearly identical experience from six years earlier: the character he had conceived then, a mildly insane man periodically committed to and released from an asylum, was identical in every particular -- down to a limp in the right leg -- to the character in his current story. Neville's audience already knows that earlier character as 'Eddie' from a previous telling.

Neville went with friends to greet three servicemen returning from the war — one marine who lost a foot and had an arm smashed, one who came back deaf, one with TB — whose mother credited St. Christopher with their return, and he asked his wife what their Catholic hosts would make of his being a Protestant.

A man told Neville that while listening to him talk about imagination he keeps touching the chair and pressing his feet into the rug to hold on to his sense of reality.

A woman gave Neville two case histories; the first is how she sold her house by ceasing to sleep in it imaginally, then found and bought an impossible house north of the Strip by sleeping in it in imagination.

Neville tells of a morning seven years earlier at El Comino when, after seeing his daughter off to school and reading his Bible, his wife came out at brunch and told him a dream within a dream in which a hand — Death's hand — took hers, and she told Neville she did not want to die but was not afraid, at which the hands disengaged.

Lecturing in San Francisco to about a thousand people, Neville was asked by a woman whether she could free her court-martialed brother; a week later she reported that after rehearsing the scene of his return the brother arrived home with an honourable discharge.

A charming lady from out of town came to Neville's living room to consult him about prayer and brought her eight-year-old son, who announced he now knew how to pray and wanted a collie puppy; despite his mother's objections he persisted in imagining hugging the puppy every night, and two months later his essay for a "Kindness to Animals Week" contest won, out of five thousand, a collie puppy presented by the mayor.

The same friend, an advertising agent, persuaded a board of twenty multi-millionaires to let him run a campaign from the premise that the result was already an accomplished fact; profits for the first quarter rose seventy-five million over the previous year, a competitor wrote fishing for the secret, and the friend now receives large unsolicited bonuses.

Neville received a letter that day from a friend in Los Angeles who had attended his meetings twice a week for three years, describing a vision in which a woman said 'Neville has risen' and pointed to a corridor filled with golden light where he knew the Lord stood.

At the Turf Club last Saturday, where he had been taken with his wife, Neville was introduced to a small odd man from Kentucky who had bought land in Ventura County and slept on the ground with his head to the earth listening for and smelling oil until he brought it in; he is now worth over six million but bored, unwell, and has forgotten the name of God.

For weeks Barry went to Neville's lecture venue, heard his voice over the loudspeaker but deliberately would not go in, buying one book per visit until he owned and had critically read them all — unable to catch Neville contradicting himself — before finally attending a lecture. [Date evidence: spring-June, c. 1958 (Barry: 'this was then in June until he closed')] [Place: Fine Arts Auditorium at the Wilshire, Los Angeles]

The first-hand account places these repeated visits at the Fine Arts Auditorium on Wilshire, ending when Barry finally attended a Monday lecture during the June 1958 series.

In a New York audience, a woman listened as Neville taught revision: before sleep, rewrite the day to conform to the day one wished to experience.