| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Underdogs by Mariano Azuela: you know, and I guess our Lady of Guadalupe can do
it all right), then I'll join Villa's men; and I swear by the
holy soul of my old mother, that I'll make every one of
these Government people pay, by God I will."
Another soldier, a bright young fellow, but a charlatan,
at heart, who drank habitually and smoked the narcotic
marihuana weed, eyeing him with vague, glassy stare,
whispered in his ear, "You know, partner . . . the men
on the other side ... you know, the other side . . . you
understand . . . they ride the best horses up north there,
and all over, see? And they harness their mounts with
The Underdogs |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Desert Gold by Zane Grey: horses. In another hour's travel the rangers could see with naked
eyes a long, faint moving streak of black and white dots.
"They're headin' for that yellow pass," said Ladd, pointing to a
break in the eastern end of the escarpment. "When they get out of
sight we'll rustle. I'm thinkin' that waterhole the Yaqui spoke of
lays in the pass."
The rangers traveled swiftly over the remaining miles of level
desert leading to the ascent of the escarpment. When they achieved
the gateway of the pass the sun was low in the west. Dwarfed
mesquite and greasewood appeared among the rocks. Ladd gave the
word to tie up horses and go forward on foot.
Desert Gold |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Charmides and Other Poems by Oscar Wilde: Through all the circling spheres, then to its Lord
Return refreshed with its new empery
And more exultant power, - this indeed
Could we but reach it were to find the last, the perfect creed.
Ah! it was easy when the world was young
To keep one's life free and inviolate,
From our sad lips another song is rung,
By our own hands our heads are desecrate,
Wanderers in drear exile, and dispossessed
Of what should be our own, we can but feed on wild unrest.
Somehow the grace, the bloom of things has flown,
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