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Of Dime Horoscopes

Back, for a moment, to the Silver Moon diner. What of the coin machine where I bought my horoscope that morning? It had its own story, one perhaps less august than that of ancient scholars or Renaissance courts but, to a young boy, no less fascinating. It was invented in 1934 by a clothing and securities salesman named Bruce King—or, as he was better known by his nom de mystique, Zolar. (“It comes from ‘zodiac’ and ‘solar system,’ ” he explained. “Registered U.S. trademark.”) His initiation was not in the temples of Egypt but on the boardwalks of Atlantic City, New Jersey. There he witnessed a goateed Professor A. F. Seward thrusting a pointer at a huge zodiac chart while lecturing beachgoers on the destiny of the stars. Professor Seward sold one-dollar horoscopes to countless vacationers—so many, rumor went, that he retired to Florida a millionaire. (The rumor, as will be seen, was true.)

Bursting forth from the boardwalks, Bruce King knew he had what it took to sell mysticism to the masses. “I felt the competition wasn’t great,” he told John Updike in The New Yorker in 1959, “and I could become the biggest man in the field.” Zolar immersed himself in astrology, Tarot, palmistry, and all the “magical arts,” on which he could expound with surprising erudition. “Everything I’ve ever known I’ve taught myself,” he said. “I’ve studied psychiatry, sociology, and every field of human relations as well as the occult.” For all his have-I-got-a-deal-for-you pitch, Zolar knew his material. His biggest breakout came in 1935, when the dime-store empire Woolworth’s agreed to sell his pocket-sized daily horoscopes, the first generation of the mass-marketed horoscope booklets that now adorn the racks at supermarket checkout lines.

The secret to Zolar’s success was that he spoke in a language everyone could understand. “I’m like the old two-dollar country doctor—a general practitioner,” he once said. “If you want a specialist, you go somewhere else.” Zolar could even sound like my grandfather when giving a reporter the lowdown on the resurgence of astrology in 1970: “It sounds kind of crazy—but you know that screwy play Hair that has that Aquarian thing?” Zolar was speaking, of course, of the rock musical’s rousing opener, “Aquarius.” “I think that’s sold five million horoscopes.”

So it had—and in America the old mysteries were on the move.

CHAPTER ONE

THE PSYCHIC HIGHWAY

Yet who knows but the institution of a new order of labourers in the great Spiritual vineyard, is to prove the signal for the outpouring of such blessings as have been hitherto unparalleled in the history of our American Israel.

—WESTERN RECORDER, 1825

The Age of Reason could seem anything but reasonable for people with unusual religious beliefs—or those accused of them. In 1782, Switzerland sanctioned one of the Western world’s last witch trials, which ended in the torture and beheading of a rural housemaid. In 1791, the Vatican sentenced the legendary Italian occultist called Cagliostro to death on charges of heresy and Freemasonry. Although his execution was stayed, the self-styled “High Priest of the Egyptian Mysteries” died of disease four years later in the dungeons of the Inquisition.

In eighteenth-century England, a young woman with the simple name of Ann Lee, living in the industrial town of Manchester on Toad Lane (where she was born in a leap year), told of magical visions and spoke of prophecies. The girl—who belonged to a radical Christian sect that would become known as the Shaking Quakers, or the Shakers—was hounded, beaten, and jailed on charges of sorcery and public disruption. Local authorities were aghast at the otherworldly possession that seemed to grip her and the other Shakers when they gyrated and shook in spirit trances. But she was not destined to become another casualty. Ann Lee escaped.

In 1774, the woman now called Mother Ann sailed from Liverpool to New York with eight followers and hangers-on. They included an unfaithful husband with whom she had already suffered through the birth