Messiah'S Handbook

The hero of Bach's bestselling book Illusions carried a small volume entitled MESSIAH'S HANDBOOK. For decades Bach fans have had one wish: to read the handbook for themselves. Here it is. This edition contains never-before-seen wisdom along with passages from many of Bach's multi-million copy selling works including Jonathan Livingston Seagull."Where did you learn all this stuff, Don? You know so much, or maybe I just think you do. No. You do know a lot. Is it all practice? Don't you get any formal training to be a Master?" "They give you a book to read."And here is the book. Donald Shimada, the mysterious hero of Richard Bach's bestselling book, Illusions, which is soon to be made into a film. Shimoda seemed to carry the keys to universe with him as he barnstormed the Midwest in a Travel Air biplane. Is he a teacher or a messiah? Part of Shimoda's secret was a small book, bound in what looked like suede, called Messiah's Handbook, which he carried with him and frequently quoted."Open it," he said, "and whatever you need to know is here." As Bach was taught by Shimoda, hold a question in your mind . . . close your eyes . . . open the handbook at random . . . pick left page or right . . . open your eyes and read the answer to your question. Here is never-before-seen wisdom, taken from many of Richard Bach's extraordinary books. The wisdom in this book is profound. As in: "Here's a test to find whether your mission on earth is finished: If you're alive, it isn't."Illusions has sold 15 million copies worldwide.

Richard Bach is the author of seventeen books, including Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Illusions and The Bridge Across Forever. His books have sold tens of millions in over 40 languages throughout the world. Back to back, his work has been on the New York Times bestseller lists for more than four years. He deals, most simply and effectively, with ideas that have the power to change the world

Foreword The last time I saw the Messiah's Handbook was when I threw it away. I had been using it as I was taught in Illusions: hold question in mind, close eyes, open handbook at random, pick left page or right. Eyes open, read answer. Always beforeitworked:fear dissolved in asmile, doubt lifted by sudden understanding.Always had I been charmed and entertained by what these pages had to tell me. So that dark day I opened the book, trusting. "Why did my friend Donald Shimoda, who had so much to teach that we so needed to learn, why did he have to die such a senseless death?" Eyes open, listen to the answer: Everything in this book may be wrong. A burst of night and rage, I remember, instant fury. I turn to it for help and this is my answer? I threw the book as hard and as far from meas I could, pages fluttering above that nameless Iowa hayfield, the thing tumbling slow motion, shuddering forever down toward the weeds. I didn't watch to see where it fell. I flew from that field and never flew back. The handbook, that senseless hurtful agony-page, was gone. Twenty years later came a package to a writer in care of the publisher. In the package a note: Dear Richard Bach, I found this when I was plowing my dad's soybean field. The field's a quarter-section used to be in hay and he told me you landed there once with the guy they killed they said was magic. So this has been plowed under I guess for a long time else it's been disked and harrowed every year and nobody's seen it till now. For all that, it's not much hurt and I figured it's your property and if you're still alive you ought to have it. No return address. On the pages, my own fingerprints in engine oil from an old Fleet biplane, a sifting of coarse dusts, a stem or two of grass falling out when I fanned it open. Rage gone, I held the book along time, remembering. Everything in this book may be wrong. Sure enough. But everything may be right, as well. Right and wrong's not up to a book. I'm the only one to say what's true for me. I'm responsible. I leafed through the pages, wondering. Is the book returned to me the same one I threw away, so long ago? Had it been resting quietly underground or had it been changing to become what some future reader needed to remember? At last, eyes closed, I held the handbook once more and asked. Dear strange mystical volume, why did you come back? Riffled the pages for a moment, opened my eyes and saw.

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