FROM THE AUTHOR (brief biography)

From the time I decided to write this book I was daily confronted with fear; fear of ridicule; fear of putting family and friends in danger; fear of life-long imprisonment and torture. The biggest fear however, was that some disastrous, unforeseen event could prevent me to finish it. As such its publication August 2009 was a tremendous relief and fear evaporated to nil. Now reader’s feedback prompts me to disclose the following about myself.

I was born 22 October 1938 in Borgerhout, a municipality at the fringe of Antwerp, Belgium.
In early childhood my ten year older brother George awakened a keen interest in Nature. He took me on walks through meadows, parks and botanical gardens in and around the city, explained how and why plants got their name in regard to texture, taste and medicinal quality, why some grew better here and not there, and back home helped me dissect those collected on the way.

At 12 years old the family moved from Antwerp to Amsterdam where I, Arthur Fehres, completed high school. My very first job was with a wholesale company, operating one of four giant bookkeeping machines for incoming and outgoing transactions concerning a host of items, customer accounts and stock records. If I would have continued working there any longer, the monotony would have killed me.

Fortunately, even though compulsory conscription into the Dutch army was on the horizon, I then found a more challenging job with a ship maintenance company. The company cleaned out oil tanks, repainted freighters, etc., with the labour carried out by teams of workmen. The position had been advertised as a bookkeeping job but the interview revealed otherwise, and I did not mention anything about my intension to immigrate. They employed me on the premise that I resume work there as soon as I had left the army. Their tiny office building was right on the quay of the harbour of Amsterdam.
I was the junior of three office staff. The first thing every morning was to make coffee, also for the foremen who dropped in to organise their gangs, and keep up the supply with a coffee making machine. Most interestingly, I had to go aboard ships to relay messages to the foremen, officers and captains, some of whom became ‘business’ friends.

At age 19, two years before my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, I got the ‘invitation’ to enter the army. First, though, I wanted to see something of the world. Ever since the family moved to Amsterdam I felt like a stranger. My native language is Flemish, very much unlike Dutch of the north. So, already in early high school years thoughts of emigration popped up.
Reluctantly, I left the wharf job, allowing ample time for one of three pushbike camping trips I had already planned: 1) to Rome to visit the Pope – the shortest; 2) to the Hunza Valley in the Himalayas, by bicycle as far as possible, then by donkey – the longest; 3) leisurely travel through Europe, camping at places of interest to nature lovers – medium duration. I persuaded my one and a half year older brother Paul to join me and let him decide which trip by choosing one of three hidden matches of different length. He picked Rome, which trip got extended to three months; what an adventure!

The family doctor, MD and naturopath, had advised my mother mainly to eat vegetables and only raw. In support of our mother we children went on the same diet. Mother soon got cured and I eagerly wanted to become a naturopath. The friendly doctor lent me his books on natural healing, guided my studies and addressed my many queries. A year later I felt ready to cure the world. When I got conscripted into the Royal Dutch Army I thought I’ll start there.

Months earlier I had written the army a letter stipulating my diet – I had become a kind of vegan (raw food vegetarian), allowing myself to eat bread, cooked pulse foods, along with fish and a boiled egg once per week. The reply had been that on the day of arrival I go and see the Food Officer. Of course, on that very day the Food Officer was unavailable. And oh, yes, I had stopped smoking; something I started at age 13.
Army canteens don’t have raw food on the ‘dinner menu’, not in 1958, certainly no dried fruits and nuts. I saw oranges on the counter, grabbed some, went to sit down in the mess amongst hundreds of would-be soldiers and ate my oranges, including peels and pips. The NO ENTRY kitchen overflowed with fresh vegetables but I thought that’s for next time.

The next day my tray was loaded with a mountain of raw veggies, potatoes underneath. Some distance away I noticed a sergeant staring at me. Minutes later, a lieutenant joined him, both saying nothing.
On the third day I was asked to eat separately, in a small room adjoining the kitchen and mess, the view an endless queue of men holding empty trays. Thus I instantly became a curiosity and it rapidly spread. Then, after the queue had gone, officers with stars and stripes appeared. They stood in front of the large window and observed me as if I were a newly arrived monkey in a zoo. I took no notice of them, kept eating with my fingers and on purpose took an occasional bite of unpeeled potato.

I knew every newcomer was going to be tested for physical fitness, so I had trained enough not to fall behind. I could do plenty of chin-ups and push-ups, had cycled from Amsterdam to Rome and back, could run ‘a mile and a half’ and sprint well.

It was wintertime. Platoons of recruits were doing different exercises in groups of 40; all in green singlets and shorts, all except barking sergeants.
For chin-ups, one bar to a group, all gathered around the ‘arena’, ready to shout out the counts. My turn was last and the record stood at 14.
The bar was much higher than what I was used to at home. I slowly took several deep, long breaths, the crowd impatiently urging me on to jump up to the bar. I had done okay with most tests. Laps around the oval on a gritty track (I the only one on bare feet) had caused bleeding foot soles but I felt wonderful. Number of push-ups had been well above average.
Chin-ups, however, had been my favourite home exercise. As I got closer to 14, shouting had become louder and louder, guys from other groups joining in. At chin-up 20 a sergeant yelled out, “If he can do that on rabbit food, I’ll start eating it myself!” I slowly continued, did as if I was struggling, the cheering crowd growing bigger and bigger. I managed chin-up 23 okay, the 24th with much greater difficulty.

Between chin-ups contestants were allowed up to three seconds ‘rest’, from the time the arms are back down to full stretch to the next pull-up. The greater the struggle, the noisier the crowd and the more jokes came up about eating beans, sex-related activities, genetic influences, etc. Valid chin-ups were those when the chin had reached the top of the bar. At the end of one’s endurance the rest period was extended to a maximum of five seconds.

To conserve energy and optimise performance I had developed my own technique. Instead of keeping the neck stiff while getting the chin over the bar, I flex the head backwards which automatically brings the chin higher. In other words, I raise my head and look up, eyes open, at which point I ask the Most High to give me strength.
Then I allow my arms to straighten slowly while the neck performs a specific routine to loosen up its muscles and stimulate blood and lymph flow to and from the head.

The exercise consists of executing an imagined, elongated, horizontal 8 with the nose, the head hanging down. Also, while lowering the torso I loosen the grip, alternating from one hand to the other. This breaks the constant even strain on the muscles of forearms, fingers and abdomen. Then finally, when the arms are fully straightened, the body gets its three seconds rest. That’s how I got to the 25th chin-up.

A nail-biting silence, experienced only before a tennis player at a Grand Final serves his last ball, descended upon the crowd. I hoped I had enough oomph left for my triumphant last one. So, there I hung with arms down, enjoying my five seconds.
Slowly I raised my legs, holding them straight to perfectly horizontal. So I reached the bar, and so I came down; the multitude mesmerised. Then deadly silence broke into ear-deafening jubilation.

I also excelled in shooting but refused to become a sniper. After two months (of three) compulsory training I got a cold which turned into bronchitis, my first ever illness. That was during the week when recruits were granted their first three-day leave.
I had avoided the army doctor, who would not have allowed me to go home. I had resorted to lots of oranges and hot lemon juice with honey, but on the day of inspection I had fever. I stood ‘At Ease’ on wobbly legs, swallowing coughs, not even scraping my throat. Then, the inspecting sergeant in front of me, I clicked my heels in ‘Attention’, and he did not notice anything.

As soon as I got home my mother called the family doctor/naturopath, the same one who had cured her breast cancer. His diagnosis was acute bronchitis; that the fever was far too high, I think about 41, and that it had to be brought down immediately. I was too weak to move, so they wrapped me naked in a sheet, wet with icy-cold tap water, and then rolled me up in a thick woollen blanket.

After the initial shock, I shivered till the covering had produced a steam bath with my radiating heat. My temperature was taken at regular intervals. After two or three hours the procedure was repeated. Temperature had come down below 39°C and instead of burning up I felt comfortably hot. The physician then left.

He had not prescribed any medicines, but had told my mother to give me nothing but the juice of two lemons and six oranges a day, honey to sweeten it; water whenever I asked for it. I was sick for a week, discharged much nasal mucous and coughed up a lot of phlegm, and it was going to take at least another week to regain my strength. However, soon after my three-day leave pass had expired, the army doctor came. He insisted that I get back to the barracks immediately and be treated by him. It was sheer luck that the family doctor dropped in – telephones were for rich people – while mother was still fiercely arguing with him; that I stay home till fully recovered. The quarrel between the two doctors escalated, ending in utter frustration for both. Finally, the army doctor gave up and agreed I could stay but no longer than one week, or else...

The army psychiatrist suggested I become a corporal writer, which included keeping an eye on soldiers’ leave-passes and personally delivering pay packets to commandants of all ranks. I would be in a position, he said, to continue my ‘difficult diet’ anywhere. So, I did their one-month bookkeeping course and the corporal stripes got me command over a small section of soldiers.

The remaining army time almost felt like a long vacation, with ample opportunity to contemplate my future, how to widen my horizons, going abroad ... emigration. First though, I needed work.

A week or two before leaving the army I had applied for a job as assistant manager with a company in Amsterdam that manufactured all kinds of plastic kitchenware, including bottle tops for the Dutch spirits industry. Printing the embossed surface of bottle tops would be my responsibility.
They had many printing machines, each one for a different colour. I was to supervise the operators, roster their work, look after their pay according to clock-in and clock-out times, and more. Later I learned there had been 28 applicants and that they had picked me on recommendation of their psychologist, based on filled-in forms submitted to him.
When I started employment there the printing department was utter chaos. Within a few weeks, however, everything ran smoothly and I began seriously to focus on immigration.

First I considered Venezuela. I had heard that in the jungle there people were getting rich collecting alluvial gold, at the high risk of poisoning themselves by burning off mercury to purify the gold. I thought this was too dangerous, too adventurous. I looked into migrating to Canada (too cold), then New Zealand (still too cold), and eventually chose Australia. Even though I knew it only as a land of ‘sheep and sunshine’,
I responded to a newspaper ad of the Australian Government. The cost of the voyage was based on the amount earned the previous year. That year I had been in the Army, income nil. The time was right. I resigned from the assistant manager job.

May 1961 MV ORANJE left Amsterdam for Australia. This was not a migrant ship. This was THE Dutch super luxury liner of the time. Accumulated connections had seen to it that I got a last-minute, all inclusive, Economy Class ticket to Melbourne, sponsored by the Australian Government who at that time was desperate to increase its populace. Moreover, I got 75 English pounds spending money for onboard extras, such as, souvenirs and drinks at the bar, and whatever expenses off-shore.

The voyage to Melbourne took six weeks, stops on the way of up to three days. The first stop was South Hampton (England), followed by Balboa (Panama), Miami, Tahiti, Auckland, Fremantle, Sydney, and finally Melbourne, the last leg before the ship sailing back to The Netherlands.

The ORANJE was full with the rich and well-to-do. Economy Class passengers were not permitted in First Class areas but those of First Class were allowed to go anywhere. This suited desperate single women on the prowl to fulfil their dreams, or those married to forever busy husbands who cannot get away from their business, or simply want unencumbered weeks to do as they please. I was a prime target; single, good looking, dark blond hair and short beard, fit and healthy. It was not unusual that at the bar, after obvious body messages, a dolled up female would hand me the key of her cabin. Economy Class cabins had four bunk beds, constantly occupied...

The ‘difficult diet’ proved no difficulty for the fleet of chefs. On the contrary, they seemed to enjoy creating something totally different each day, using the finest ingredients. I dined like a king, served by immaculately dressed waiters at tables of four.

Regretfully, I must keep this migratory story very short, but I cannot resist mentioning that in Tahiti I met this extraordinarily beautiful, exotic ‘bird of paradise’ (without feathers). We clicked instantly, and after two full days of ‘clicking’ I hurried back to the ship, which was about to leave, sailors ready to pull up the drawbridge. Passengers had been warned that if anyone was not back in time the ship would sail on and they would have to catch up by plane, or otherwise, at their own expense. When people at the railings saw me coming, running like Hell, they yelled and cheered. The drawbridge pulled up as I walked on to it, totally exhausted, but what a relief. The whole voyage had been an once-in-a-lifetime experience, one never forgets.

It surprised me that in Australia naturopaths don’t need to be an MD. I obtained my degree in the Southern School of Naturopathy, Melbourne, and worked three years for John van der Meulen, a Dutch-Australian natural health pioneer in whose clinic (Morwell, Victoria) I got my eyes on Archibald Cockren’s Alchemy Rediscovered and Restored. John taught me how to make herbal remedies from concentrates (which he imported from England), homeopathic dilutions and compounds for specific illnesses.

During this three year ‘apprenticeship’ I achieved a Doctorate in Chiropractic in that same School and taught chiropractic practise there for one year. On the 11th of December 1965 I bought a neglected chiropractic clinic in Dandenong (65 km south of Melbourne) and left John. Thankfully, John had also shown me how to turn one’s practice into a successful business. Consequently, two years later I had a new clinic built, away from the CBD. I had placed only one advertisement in the local newspaper, just to inform the district of the change of hands.

John had invited Frater Albertus (Paracelsus Research Society, P.R.S. Salt Lake City) to give an alchemy class in his place and asked me to attend but I had to focus on my newly bought Dandenong clinic, so I declined. This January 1966 class had two participants; John and his friend Peter van Wunnik, also a natural health physician. I attended the next one the following year, January 1967, which Fr. Albertus (Albert Riedel) combined into a Prima and Secunda. The number of participants now had doubled; three were practitioners who were doing well in their clinics, and one builder, Alex Gathercole. These four became the founders of P.R.S. Australia; John was the ‘head man’, Peter got elected president and I secretary/treasurer. For six years, from 1967 to 1983, my (first) wife and I helped organise the yearly, consecutive, two-week classes in Australia, during which time Albert and his wife Emmy stayed at our home in Dandenong for up to six weeks; the Septa class I did in Salt Lake City, 1984. After those seven seminars Frater Albertus told his students that they were on their own.

Those ‘on-their-own’ I invited to my two-week seminar/workshops about my ongoing progress; participants came back year after year. However, after ten years I discovered what alchemy truly is about and I stopped teaching altogether. I plunged into totally new research, succeeded in elaborating the Philosophers’ Stone and named it Pax Glass. That’s when I commenced writing BOOK OF REVELATION – THE PHILOSOPHERS’ STONE – THE EASY WAY.