| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll: quite clear that he could neither hear her nor see her.
So Alice picked him up very gently, and lifted him across more
slowly than she had lifted the Queen, that she mightn't take his
breath away: but, before she put him on the table, she thought
she might as well dust him a little, he was so covered with
ashes.
She said afterwards that she had never seen in all her life
such a face as the King made, when he found himself held in the
air by an invisible hand, and being dusted: he was far too much
astonished to cry out, but his eyes and his mouth went on getting
larger and larger, and rounder and rounder, till her hand shook
Through the Looking-Glass |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne: Results so obtained could not be correctly calculated. On the contrary,
Captain Nemo went himself to test the temperature in the depths of the sea,
and his thermometer, placed in communication with the different sheets
of water, gave him the required degree immediately and accurately.
It was thus that, either by overloading her reservoirs or by descending
obliquely by means of her inclined planes, the Nautilus successively attained
the depth of three, four, five, seven, nine, and ten thousand yards,
and the definite result of this experience was that the sea preserved
an average temperature of four degrees and a half at a depth of five
thousand fathoms under all latitudes.
On the 16th of January, the Nautilus seemed becalmed
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Travels with a Donkey in the Cevenne by Robert Louis Stevenson: heaven, and cast great ungainly splashes of shadow and sunlight
over the scene.
Luc itself was a straggling double file of houses wedged between
hill and river. It had no beauty, nor was there any notable
feature, save the old castle overhead with its fifty quintals of
brand-new Madonna. But the inn was clean and large. The kitchen,
with its two box-beds hung with clean check curtains, with its wide
stone chimney, its chimney-shelf four yards long and garnished with
lanterns and religious statuettes, its array of chests and pair of
ticking clocks, was the very model of what a kitchen ought to be; a
melodrama kitchen, suitable for bandits or noblemen in disguise.
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