| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Father Damien by Robert Louis Stevenson: Damien was HEADSTRONG.
I believe you are right again; and I thank God for his strong head
and heart.
Damien was BIGOTED.
I am not fond of bigots myself, because they are not fond of me.
But what is meant by bigotry, that we should regard it as a blemish
in a priest? Damien believed his own religion with the simplicity
of a peasant or a child; as I would I could suppose that you do.
For this, I wonder at him some way off; and had that been his only
character, should have avoided him in life. But the point of
interest in Damien, which has caused him to be so much talked about
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Redheaded Outfield by Zane Grey: playing with good balls.''
``Why did you ring this one in on us?'' asked
the captain. ``We never threw out this ball. We
want a chance to hit it.''
That was just the one thing we did not want
them to have. But fate played against us.
``Get up on your toes, now an' dust,'' said
Merritt. ``Take your medicine, you lazy sit-in-front-
of-the-hotel stiffs! Think of pay day!''
Not improbably we all entertained the identical
thought that old man Hathaway was the last
The Redheaded Outfield |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton by Edith Wharton: was back at my desk."
Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his
listener; but Denver's face remained inscrutable.
At length he said: "Why did you want to tell me this?"
The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he
had explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if
his motive had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry
much less weight with Denver. Both were successful men, and
success does not understand the subtle agony of failure. Granice
cast about for another reason.
"Why, I--the thing haunts me . . . remorse, I suppose you'd call
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