| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Story of an African Farm by Olive Schreiner: three in the doorway.
Once in their room, Em sat down on the floor and wailed bitterly. Lyndall
lay on the bed with her arm drawn across her eyes, very white and still.
"Hoo, hoo!" cried Em; "and they won't let him take the grey mare; and Waldo
has gone to the mill. Hoo, hoo, and perhaps they won't let us go and say
good-bye to him. Hoo, hoo, hoo!"
"I wish you would be quiet," said Lyndall without moving. "Does it give
you such felicity to let Bonaparte know he is hurting you? We will ask no
one. It will be suppertime soon. Listen--and when you hear the clink of
the knives and forks we will go out and see him.
Em suppressed her sobs and listened intently, kneeling at the door.
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Last War: A World Set Free by H. G. Wells: Charles annoyed the conference by a proposal to be treated as a
protected state. Finally he professed an unconvincing
submission, and put a mass of obstacles in the way of the
transfer of his national officials to the new government. In
these things he was enthusiastically supported by his subjects,
still for the most part an illiterate peasantry, passionately if
confusedly patriotic, and so far with no practical knowledge of
the effect of atomic bombs. More particularly he retained control
of all the Balkan aeroplanes.
For once the extreme naivete of Leblanc seems to have been
mitigated by duplicity. He went on with the general pacification
The Last War: A World Set Free |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Vendetta by Honore de Balzac: left of his regiment. He described, in words of fire, the great
disaster of Waterloo. His voice was music itself to the Italian girl.
Brought up as a Corsican, Ginevra was, in some sense, a child of
Nature; falseness was a thing unknown to her; she gave herself up
without reserve to her impressions; she acknowledged them, or, rather,
allowed them to be seen without the affectations of petty and
calculating coquetry, characteristic of Parisian girlhood. During this
day she sat more than once with her palette in one hand, her brushes
in another, without touching a color. With her eyes fastened on the
officer, and her lips slightly apart, she listened, in the attitude of
painting a stroke which was never painted. She was not surprised to
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