| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Phaedo by Plato: friends at the commencement of the Dialogue, the dismissal of Xanthippe,
whose presence would have been out of place at a philosophical discussion,
but who returns again with her children to take a final farewell, the
dejection of the audience at the temporary overthrow of the argument, the
picture of Socrates playing with the hair of Phaedo, the final scene in
which Socrates alone retains his composure--are masterpieces of art. And
the chorus at the end might have interpreted the feeling of the play:
'There can no evil happen to a good man in life or death.'
'The art of concealing art' is nowhere more perfect than in those writings
of Plato which describe the trial and death of Socrates. Their charm is
their simplicity, which gives them verisimilitude; and yet they touch, as
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Recruit by Honore de Balzac: by starting topics relating to the interests of the town, and she
raised such a lively discussion on the quality of ciders, which was
ably seconded by the old merchant, that the company almost forgot to
watch her, finding her countenance quite natural, and her composure
imperturbable. The public prosecutor and one of the judges of the
revolutionary tribunal was taciturn, observing attentively every
change in her face; every now and then they addressed her some
embarrassing question, to which, however, the countess answered with
admirable presence of mind. Mothers have such courage!
After Madame de Dey had arranged the card parties, placing some guests
at the boston, and some at the whist tables, she stood talking to a
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Songs of Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson: Roll through our cities without cease,
And all the iron halls of life
Ring with the unremitting strife.
The common lot we scarce perceive.
Crowds perish, we nor mark nor grieve:
The bugle calls - we mourn a few!
What corporal's guard at Waterloo?
What scanty hundreds more or less
In the man-devouring Wilderness?
What handful bled on Delhi ridge?
- See, rather, London, on thy bridge
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