| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from 'Twixt Land & Sea by Joseph Conrad: "All I want is to live in peace and quietness with the Dutch
authorities," he mumbled shamefacedly.
He was incurable. I was sorry for him, and I really think Miss
Freya was sorry for her father, too. She restrained herself for
his sake, and as everything she did she did it simply,
unaffectedly, and even good humouredly. No small effort that,
because in Heemskirk's attentions there was an insolent touch of
scorn, hard to put up with. Dutchmen of that sort are over-bearing
to their inferiors, and that officer of the king looked upon old
Nelson and Freya as quite beneath him in every way.
I can't say I felt sorry for Freya. She was not the sort of girl
'Twixt Land & Sea |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson: "Well, it was this way," returned Mr. Enfield: "I was coming
home from some place at the end of the world, about three o'clock
of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town
where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street
after street and all the folks asleep--street after street, all
lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church--
till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and
listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at
once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along
eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or
ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street.
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from At the Sign of the Cat & Racket by Honore de Balzac: peace, the silence, the modest way of life in this family, that to an
artist accustomed to render nature, there was something hopeless in
any attempt to depict this scene, come upon by chance. The stranger
was a young painter, who, seven years before, had gained the first
prize for painting. He had now just come back from Rome. His soul,
full-fed with poetry; his eyes, satiated with Raphael and Michael
Angelo, thirsted for real nature after long dwelling in the pompous
land where art has everywhere left something grandiose. Right or
wrong, this was his personal feeling. His heart, which had long been a
prey to the fire of Italian passion, craved one of those modest and
meditative maidens whom in Rome he had unfortunately seen only in
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