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Today's Stichomancy for Chris Rock

The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Vailima Letters by Robert Louis Stevenson:

it will never be popular, but might make a little SUCCES DE SCANDALE. However, I'm done with it now, and not sorry, and the crowd may rave and mumble its bones for what I care.

Hole essential. I am sorry about the maps; but I want 'em for next edition, so see and have proofs sent. You are quite right about the bottle and the great Huish, I must try to make it clear. No, I will not write a play for Irving nor for the devil. Can you not see that the work of FALSIFICATION which a play demands is of all tasks the most ungrateful? And I have done it a long while - and nothing ever came of it.

The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Phaedo by Plato:

and that other things participate in them and derive their names from them, Socrates, if I remember rightly, said:--

This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that Simmias is greater than Socrates and less than Phaedo, do you not predicate of Simmias both greatness and smallness?

Yes, I do.

But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed Socrates, as the words may seem to imply, because he is Simmias, but by reason of the size which he has; just as Simmias does not exceed Socrates because he is Simmias, any more than because Socrates is Socrates, but because he has smallness when compared with the greatness of Simmias?

The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Modeste Mignon by Honore de Balzac:

blood, it makes them live, it makes them die for its sake. The visible developments of their hidden existence do seem, in their results, like egotism; but who shall dare to say that the man who has abnegated self to give pleasure, instruction, or grandeur to his epoch, is an egoist? Is a mother selfish when she immolates all things to her child? Well, the detractors of genius do not perceive its fecund maternity, that is all. The life of a poet is so perpetual a sacrifice that he needs a gigantic organization to bear even the ordinary pleasures of life. Therefore, into what sorrows may he not fall when, like Moliere, he wishes to live the life of feeling in its most poignant crises; to me, remembering

Modeste Mignon