| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Tono Bungay by H. G. Wells: whisperer, now some earnest, specially dressed youth with an
eye-glass and a buttonhole, now some homely-speaking, shrewd
Manchester man or some Scotchman eager to be very clear and full.
Many came in couples or trios, often in tow of an explanatory
solicitor. Some were white and earnest, some flustered beyond
measure at their opportunity. Some of them begged and prayed to
be taken up. My uncle chose what he wanted and left the rest.
He became very autocratic to these applicants.
He felt he could make them, and they felt so too. He had but to
say "No!" and they faded out of existence.... He had become a
sort of vortex to which wealth flowed of its own accord. His
|
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie: you. You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have to
mine."
"A most admirable sentiment," remarked Poirot, rising briskly to
his feet. "Now I have finished with this room. By the way,
whose is the smaller desk in the corner?"
"Mr. Inglethorp's."
"Ah!" He tried the roll top tentatively. "Locked. But perhaps
one of Mrs. Inglethorp's keys would open it." He tried several,
twisting and turning them with a practiced hand, and finally
uttering an ejaculation of satisfaction. "Viola! It is not the
key, but it will open it at a pinch." He slid back the roll top,
The Mysterious Affair at Styles |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Songs of Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson: Assault of squalls that mock the watchful guard,
And pluck the bursting canvas from the yard,
And senseless clamour of the calm, at night
Must mar your slumbers. By the plunging light,
In beetle-haunted, most unwomanly bower
Of the wild-swerving cabin, hour by hour . . .
Schooner 'Equator.'
XXXIV - TO MY OLD FAMILIARS
DO you remember - can we e'er forget? -
How, in the coiled-perplexities of youth,
In our wild climate, in our scowling town,
|
