| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Muse of the Department by Honore de Balzac: "You do not, you cannot love that cold, dried-up, taciturn little
usurer on wine casks and land, who would leave any man in the lurch
for twenty-five centimes on a renewal. Oh, I have fully recognized
Monsieur de la Baudraye's similarity to a Parisian bill-discounter;
their nature is identical.--At eight-and-twenty, handsome, well
conducted, and childless--I assure you, madame, I never saw the
problem of virtue more admirably expressed.--The author of /Paquita la
Sevillane/ must have dreamed many dreams!
"I can speak of such things without the hypocritical gloss lent them
by young men, for I am old before my time. I have no illusions left.
Can a man have any illusions in the trade I follow?"
The Muse of the Department |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Call of Cthulhu by H. P. Lovecraft: horrors beyond man's power to bear? If so, they must be horrors
of the mind alone, for in some way the second of April had put
a stop to whatever monstrous menace had begun its siege of mankind's
soul.
That evening, after a day of hurried cabling and arranging,
I bade my host adieu and took a train for San Francisco. In less
than a month I was in Dunedin; where, however, I found that little
was known of the strange cult-members who had lingered in the
old sea-taverns. Waterfront scum was far too common for special
mentnon; though there was vague talk about one inland trip these
mongrels had made, during which faint drumming and red flame were
Call of Cthulhu |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Venus and Adonis by William Shakespeare: Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:
And with that word she spied the hunted boar;
Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red, 901
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither: 904
This way she runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires to rate the boar for murther.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways,
She treads the path that she untreads again; 908
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
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