| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy: entrenchments. There, you see? There's our center, at Borodino, just
there," and he pointed to the village in front of them with the
white church. "That's where one crosses the Kolocha. You see down
there where the rows of hay are lying in the hollow, there's the
bridge. That's our center. Our right flank is over there"- he
pointed sharply to the right, far away in the broken ground- "That's
where the Moskva River is, and we have thrown up three redoubts there,
very strong ones. The left flank..." here the officer paused. "Well,
you see, that's difficult to explain.... Yesterday our left flank
was there at Shevardino, you see, where the oak is, but now we have
withdrawn our left wing- now it is over there, do you see that village
War and Peace |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Tales of the Klondyke by Jack London: of women. He shook his head, without scrutiny; he knew her too
well to be mistaken. But she pressed closer. She lifted the
black silk ribbon and as quickly lowered it again. For one
flashing, eternal second he looked upon her face. It was not for
nothing, the saying which had arisen in the country, that Freda
played with men as a child with bubbles. Not a word was spoken.
Prince stepped aside, and a few moments later might have been seen
resigning, with warm incoherence, the post to which he had been
unfaithful.
A woman, flexible of form, slender, yet rhythmic of strength in
every movement, now pausing with this group, now scanning that,
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Poems by Oscar Wilde: And all the branches streaked with gold.
Poem: At Verona
How steep the stairs within Kings' houses are
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound's table, - better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.
'Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
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