The psychic industry is vast, and accommodates many tastes.
At the junk food end of the market, there are instant phone readings which recycle lame pre-set scripts for every caller. The people doing the talking are trained to say the right things, promise the earth and, most of all, keep the customer on the line. These conveyor-belt miracles are cheap, quick, and offer mental nutrition on a par with Donald Duck cartoons. This may sound unfair, and it is. I apologise to Donald Duck cartoons.
At the haute cuisine end of the market are one-hour private consultations which cost the earth and deliver heaven on a stick. In the age of the personal trainer and the personal therapist, it should come as no surprise that those with a taste for designer life accessories can hire their very own slice of psy-chic. If presidents and royalty do it, it must be good, right?
To try and cover this rich and wondrous field, I have broken it down into a number of categories.
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The pathology of the poet says that the undevout astronomer is mad the pathology of the very plain man says that the genius is mad and between these extremes, which stand for ten thousand analogous excesses, the sovereign reason takes the part of a moderator and does what it can. I do not think that there is a pathology of the occult dedications, but about their extravagances no one can question, and it is not less difficult than thankless to act as a moderator regarding them.