| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Weir of Hermiston by Robert Louis Stevenson: would have gone to the cross for him; and when it came to trial he was
gradually pictured before me, by undeniable probation, in the light of
so gross, so cold-blooded, and so black-hearted a villain, that I had a
mind to have cast my brief upon the table. I was then boiling against
the man with even a more tropical temperature than I had been boiling
for him. But I said to myself: `No, you have taken up his case; and
because you have changed your mind it must not be suffered to let drop.
All that rich tide of eloquence that you prepared last night with so
much enthusiasm is out of place, and yet you must not desert him, you
must say something.' So I said something, and I got him off. It made
my reputation. But an experience of that kind is formative. A man must
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Art of Writing by Robert Louis Stevenson: ideal make this ungrateful effort once for all; and, having
formed a style, adhere to it through life. But those of a
higher order cannot rest content with a process which, as
they continue to employ it, must infallibly degenerate
towards the academic and the cut-and-dried. Every fresh work
in which they embark is the signal for a fresh engagement of
the whole forces of their mind; and the changing views which
accompany the growth of their experience are marked by still
more sweeping alterations in the manner of their art. So
that criticism loves to dwell upon and distinguish the
varying periods of a Raphael, a Shakespeare, or a Beethoven.
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Taras Bulba and Other Tales by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol: who will buy, not even knowing me by name? Who wants drawings from the
antique, or the life class, or my unfinished love of a Psyche, or the
interior of my room, or the portrait of Nikita, though it is better,
to tell the truth, than the portraits by any of the fashionable
artists? Why do I worry, and toil like a learner over the alphabet,
when I might shine as brightly as the rest, and have money, too, like
them?"
Thus speaking, the artist suddenly shuddered, and turned pale. A
convulsively distorted face gazed at him, peeping forth from the
surrounding canvas; two terrible eyes were fixed straight upon him; on
the mouth was written a menacing command of silence. Alarmed, he tried
Taras Bulba and Other Tales |
