I read Many Dimensions by Charles Williams because of a review at Random Thoughts and Nonsense. Unfortunately, I had several books arrive from the library as well as heavy work-related reading, so I got bogged-down about 3/4 of the way through and set it aside. Last night I finally just skimmed through the last of it.
The Eerdmans edition I got from the library has on the jacket: "Williams believed intensely in the impingement of the supernatural world, and he excelled in descriptions of experiences such as many people have had only once or twice in their lives." Williams died in 1945 at the age of 59, and this book was first published in 1931. I thought it by turns quaint, proto-new-agey, coy, pious (in the bad sense), and mumbo-jumbo. But maybe I’m in a bad mood (I did, after all, go to the trouble of at least skimming to the end). For a much more sympathetic reflection, go on over to Random Thoughts and Nonsense.