| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Desert Gold by Zane Grey: be rekindled. Gale patrolled his short beat, becoming colder and
damper as dawn approached. The darkness grew so dense that he could
not see the pale faces of the sleepers. He dreaded the gray dawn
and the light. Slowly the heavy black belt close to the lava
changed to a pale gloom, then to gray, and after that morning came
quickly.
The hour had come for Dick Gale to face his great problem. It was
natural that he hung back a little at first; natural that when he
went forward to look at the quiet sleepers he did so with a grim
and stern force urging him. Yaqui stirred, roused, yawned, got up;
and, though he did not smile at Gale, a light shone swiftly across
Desert Gold |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Father Sergius by Leo Tolstoy: 'How much do you get for a lesson?'
'Sometimes a ruble, sometimes fifty kopeks, or sometimes thirty.
They are all so kind to me.'
'And do your pupils get on well?' asked Kasatsky with a slight
smile.
Praskovya Mikhaylovna did not at first believe that he was asking
seriously, and looked inquiringly into his eyes.
'Some of them do. One of them is a splendid girl--the butcher's
daughter--such a good kind girl! If I were a clever woman I
ought, of course, with the connexions Papa had, to be able to get
an appointment for my son-in-law. But as it is I have not been
|
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Perfect Wagnerite: A Commentary on the Niblung's Ring by George Bernard Shaw: perhaps, will be claimed for the preludes and fugues of Bach; but
Bach's method was unattainable: his compositions were wonderful
webs of exquisitely beautiful Gothic traceries in sound, quite
beyond all ordinary human talent. Beethoven's far blunter craft
was thoroughly popular and practicable: not to save his soul
could he have drawn one long Gothic line in sound as Bach could,
much less have woven several of them together with so apt a
harmony that even when the composer is unmoved its progressions
saturate themselves with the emotion which (as modern critics are
a little apt to forget) springs as warmly from our delicately
touched admiration as from our sympathies, and sometimes makes us
|
