| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from My Aunt Margaret's Mirror by Walter Scott: "What became of the adept?" demanded I.
"Why, a warrant came down shortly afterwards to arrest him for
high treason, as an agent of the Chevalier St. George; and Lady
Bothwell, recollecting the hints which had escaped the doctor, an
ardent friend of the Protestant succession, did then call to
remembrance that this man was chiefly PRONE among the ancient
matrons of her own political persuasion. It certainly seemed
probable that intelligence from the Continent, which could easily
have been transmitted by an active and powerful agent, might have
enabled him to prepare such a scene of phantasmagoria as she had
herself witnessed. Yet there were so many difficulties in
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Awakening & Selected Short Stories by Kate Chopin: piano sent a keen tremor down Mrs. Pontellier's spinal column. It
was not the first time she had heard an artist at the piano.
Perhaps it was the first time she was ready, perhaps the first time
her being was tempered to take an impress of the abiding truth.
She waited for the material pictures which she thought would
gather and blaze before her imagination. She waited in vain. She
saw no pictures of solitude, of hope, of longing, or of despair.
But the very passions themselves were aroused within her soul,
swaying it, lashing it, as the waves daily beat upon her splendid
body. She trembled, she was choking, and the tears blinded her.
Mademoiselle had finished. She arose, and bowing her stiff,
Awakening & Selected Short Stories |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin by Robert Louis Stevenson: the mind of Fleeming that train of tender and grateful thought,
which was like a preparation for his own. Already I find him
writing in the plural of 'these impending deaths'; already I find
him in quest of consolation. 'There is little pain in store for
these wayfarers,' he wrote, 'and we have hope - more than hope,
trust.'
On May 19, 1884, Mr. Austin was taken. He was seventy-eight years
of age, suffered sharply with all his old firmness, and died happy
in the knowledge that he had left his wife well cared for. This
had always been a bosom concern; for the Barrons were long-lived
and he believed that she would long survive him. But their union
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