Three years ago, being ill and not happy,[30] reached the crisis of questioning. I wanted to know how to get well, and I wanted to know why I wanted to get well. And so, I began to ask, where is the path toward knowledge? In which little store-house will I find a clue to the answer? I went to see the medical men who have access to one little store-house. I went to the psychological healers who have access to another little store-house. And I went to the only religious group in the world today which seemed to have any real, or living religion.[31] From all three of these sources, one clue, one hint, stood out as a real clue. From the mass of purported knowledge it appeared to me to be the most significant. It seemed to be the thing which produced results in all these three domains, though the priests and priestesses of but one of them seemed aware of the great significance of this hint. It had to do with man’s mind, to begin with, but it seemed to lead into the very heart of all the universe—into our “material bodies,” as well as into our mental hopes and longings and joys and despairs. So I set to work to experiment first with telepathy and clairvoyance. If clairvoyance is real, I said, then we may have access to all knowledge. We may really be fountains, or outlets of one vast mind. To have access to _all knowledge_. If telepathy is real, I said, then my mind is not my own. I’m just a radio receiving set, which picks up the thoughts of all the other creatures of this universe. I and the universe of men are _one_. I had long known, of course, that my body was not my own—that it picked up sun-rays, and cold-waves, and sound-vibrations, which shook the atoms of my being into new forms; that I picked up iron and sulphur, and phosphorus, and vitamines, and what not, when I ate the plants and animals of my universe; in short, that I had to pick up the constituents of a new body in the form of “fresh air” and “water” and “food” every day of my life in order to maintain the hold I had on the thing I called _my_ body. But somehow, in the vague way in which we think of the mind, I had felt that mine was entirely my own. Surely it was not dependent on, nor at the mercy of, outside forces—except in the one horrible, inexorable way of its dependence on my own body. It was free, of course, to accept ideas from other minds, if it wished; but it did not have to, unless it wanted to. So I had believed. Now, with my new clue, I began to wonder if all my life I had not been in error in my thinking, if I had not got the scheme of things turned upside down. Had I been looking at an image in a mirror, a reversal of the truth? Was my body dependent on my mind when I had thought my mind was dependent on my body? Was it sick when my mind was, and did it die when my mind died—of discouragement? And was my mind my own, or did it receive and accept thoughts constantly from all the other creatures of the universe without