| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Pierre Grassou by Honore de Balzac: perhaps the most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre
Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply "Fougeres" among his
brother-artists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the
saying is, "in the sun," and who suggested the rather bitter
reflections by which this sketch of his life is introduced,--
reflections that are applicable to many other individuals of the tribe
of artists.
In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of
one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor,
and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings,
three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Les Miserables by Victor Hugo: of innocence, she allowed an officer of the Lancers, her grand nephew,
named Theodule, to embrace her without displeasure.
In spite of this favored Lancer, the label: Prude, under which we have
classed her, suited her to absolute perfection. Mademoiselle Gillenormand
was a sort of twilight soul. Prudery is a demi-virtue and a demi-vice.
To prudery she added bigotry, a well-assorted lining. She belonged
to the society of the Virgin, wore a white veil on certain festivals,
mumbled special orisons, revered "the holy blood," venerated "the
sacred heart," remained for hours in contemplation before a
rococo-jesuit altar in a chapel which was inaccessible to the rank
and file of the faithful, and there allowed her soul to soar among
Les Miserables |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Altar of the Dead by Henry James: his Dead perhaps wouldn't let him forsake them without doing
something more for him. They stood there, as he had left them, in
their tall radiance, the bright cluster that had already made him,
on occasions when he was willing to compare small things with
great, liken them to a group of sea-lights on the edge of the ocean
of life. It was a relief to him, after a while, as he sat there,
to feel they had still a virtue. He was more and more easily
tired, and he always drove now; the action of his heart was weak
and gave him none of the reassurance conferred by the action of his
fancy. None the less he returned yet again, returned several
times, and finally, during six months, haunted the place with a
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