| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from A Book of Remarkable Criminals by H. B. Irving: wife, would lend colour to his story that she had gone off with a
former lover, taking with her the money which Derues had paid her
for Buisson-Souef. He would then produce the necessary documents
proving the payment of the purchase-money, and Buisson-Souef
would be his for good and all.
The prime necessity to the success of this plan was the
disappearance, willing or unwilling, of Mme. de Lamotte and her
son. The former had settled down quite comfortably beneath the
hospitable roof of the Derues, and under the soothing influence
of her host showed little vigour in pressing him for the money
due to herself and her husband. She had already spent a month in
A Book of Remarkable Criminals |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Chouans by Honore de Balzac: vantage-ground of her position with coolness and dignity; at the
bottom of her heart she admired his courage and tranquillity. Happy in
discovering that the man she loved bore an ancient title (the
distinctions of which please every woman), she also found pleasure in
meeting him in their present situation, where, as champion of a cause
ennobled by misfortune, he was fighting with all the faculties of a
strong soul against a Republic that was constantly victorious. She
rejoiced to see him brought face to face with danger, and still
displaying the courage and bravery so powerful on a woman's heart;
again and again she put him to the test, obeying perhaps the instinct
which induces a woman to play with her victim as a cat plays with a
The Chouans |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The House of Dust by Conrad Aiken: The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.
And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,
And throwing him pennies, we bear away
A mournful echo of other times and places,
And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay.
Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow;
Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting;
In broken slow cascades.
The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly;
Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . .
And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,
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