| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from La Grande Breteche by Honore de Balzac: authentic history. The notary's ponderous voice and monotonous accent,
accustomed no doubt to listen to himself and to make himself listened
to by his clients or fellow-townsmen, were too much for my curiosity.
Happily, he soon went away.
" 'Ah, ha, monsieur,' said he on the stairs, 'a good many persons
would be glad to live five-and-forty years longer; but--one moment!'
and he laid the first finger of his right hand to his nostril with a
cunning look, as much as to say, 'Mark my words!--To last as long as
that--as long as that,' said he, 'you must not be past sixty now.'
"I closed my door, having been roused from my apathy by this last
speech, which the notary thought very funny; then I sat down in my
La Grande Breteche |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Old Indian Legends by Zitkala-Sa: heels, he strayed off through the tall grass. He was ambling
toward the small round hut. When directly in front of the entrance
way, he made a quick side kick with his left hind leg. Lo! there
fell into the badger's hut a piece of fresh meat. It was tough
meat, full of sinews, yet it was the only piece he could take
without his father's notice.
Thus having given meat to the hungry badgers, the ugly baby
bear ran quickly away to his father again.
On the following day the father badger came back once more.
He stood watching the big bear cutting thin slices of meat.
" Give--" he began, when the bear turning upon him with a
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Taras Bulba and Other Tales by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol: sad and joyous like one of those Ukrainian songs which have helped to
inspire him to write it. And then, as he cut himself off more and more
from the world of the past, life became a sadder and still sadder
thing to him; modern life, with all its gigantic pettiness, closed in
around him, he began to write of petty officials and of petty
scoundrels, "commonplace heroes" he called them. But nothing is ever
lost in this world. Gogol's romanticism, shut in within himself,
finding no outlet, became a flame. It was a flame of pity. He was like
a man walking in hell, pitying. And that was the miracle, the
transfiguration. Out of that flame of pity the Russian novel was born.
JOHN COURNOS
Taras Bulba and Other Tales |
