| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe: had a fine gold watch on, and a good necklace of pearl, and
they had a footman in livery with them; but as it is not usual
for the footman to go behind the ladies in the Mall, so I
observed the footman stopped at their going into the Mall,
and the biggest of the sisters spoke to him, which I perceived
was to bid him be just there when they came back.
When I heard her dismiss the footman, I stepped up to him
and asked him, what little lady that was? and held a little chat
with him about what a pretty child it was with her, and how
genteel and well-carriaged the lady, the eldest, would be: how
womanish, and how grave; and the fool of a fellow told me
Moll Flanders |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Andersen: on their hindlegs and showed off their steps. Never a little tea-party of
white young lady foxes; vast, cold, and empty were the halls of the Snow
Queen. The northern-lights shone with such precision that one could tell
exactly when they were at their highest or lowest degree of brightness. In the
middle of the empty, endless hall of snow, was a frozen lake; it was cracked
in a thousand pieces, but each piece was so like the other, that it seemed the
work of a cunning artificer. In the middle of this lake sat the Snow Queen
when she was at home; and then she said she was sitting in the Mirror of
Understanding, and that this was the only one and the best thing in the world.
Little Kay was quite blue, yes nearly black with cold; but he did not observe
it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from his body, and his heart
Fairy Tales |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Reminiscences of Tolstoy by Leo Tolstoy: would then be growing light. Our horses were brought round, we
got on, and rode first to "the other house," or to the kennels to
get the dogs.
Agáfya Mikháilovna would be anxiously waiting
us on the steps. Despite the coldness of the morning, she would
be bareheaded and lightly clad, with her black jacket open,
showing her withered, old bosom. She carried the dog-collars in
her lean, knotted hands.
"Have you gone and fed them again?" asks my father,
severely, looking at the dogs' bulging stomachs.
"Fed them? Not a bit; only just a crust of bread apiece."
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