| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce: "Suppose a man -- a civilian and student of hanging --
should elude the picket post and perhaps get the better of
the sentinel," said Fahrquhar, smiling, "what could he
accomplish?"
The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he
replied. "I observed that the flood of last winter had
lodged a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier
at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would burn like
tinder."
The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank.
He thanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode
An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad: sufficiently "peculiar" not to be taken rashly abroad. And that
was all. But talking round that vital point, she approached
absolute vehemence in her delivery. Meanwhile, with brusque
movements, she arrayed herself in an apron for the washing up of
cups. And as if excited by the sound of her uncontradicted voice,
she went so far as to say in a tone almost tart:
"If you go abroad you'll have to go without me."
"You know I wouldn't," said Mr Verloc huskily, and the unresonant
voice of his private life trembled with an enigmatical emotion.
Already Mrs Verloc was regretting her words. They had sounded more
unkind than she meant them to be. They had also the unwisdom of
The Secret Agent |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Ball at Sceaux by Honore de Balzac: father. He daintily took a pinch of snuff, cleared his throat two or
three times, as if he were about to demand a count out of the House;
then he heard his daughter's light step, and she came in humming an
air from Il Barbiere.
"Good-morning, papa. What do you want with me so early?" Having sung
these words, as though they were the refrain of the melody, she kissed
the Count, not with the familiar tenderness which makes a daughter's
love so sweet a thing, but with the light carelessness of a mistress
confident of pleasing, whatever she may do.
"My dear child," said Monsieur de Fontaine, gravely, "I sent for you
to talk to you very seriously about your future prospects. You are at
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