|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Lair of the White Worm by Bram Stoker:
moment he had raised her up, and together they rushed out through
the open door into the sunlight, Sir Nathaniel close behind them.
They were all pale except the old diplomatist, who looked both calm
and cool. It sustained and cheered Adam and his wife to see him
thus master of himself. Both managed to follow his example, to the
wonderment of the footmen, who saw the three who had just escaped a
terrible danger walking together gaily, as, under the guiding
pressure of Sir Nathaniel's hand, they turned to re-enter the house.
Lady Arabella, whose face had blanched to a deadly white, now
resumed her ministrations at the tea-board as though nothing unusual
had happened. The slop-basin was full of half-burned brown paper,
Lair of the White Worm
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Secrets of the Princesse de Cadignan by Honore de Balzac:
to defend myself. Besides, to whom could I appeal? Such cruel things
can be confided to none but God or to one who seems to us very near
Him--a priest, or another self. Well! I do know this, if my secrets
are not as safe there," she said, laying her hand on d'Arthez's heart,
"as they are here" (pressing the upper end of her busk beneath her
fingers), "then you are not the grand d'Arthez I think you--I shall
have been deceived."
A tear moistened d'Arthez's eyes, and Diane drank it in with a side
look, which, however, gave no motion either to the pupils or the lids
of her eyes. It was quick and neat, like the action of a cat pouncing
on a mouse.
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Hidden Masterpiece by Honore de Balzac:
the way. It is a nature, an essence, mocking yet kind, fruitful though
destitute. Thus, for the enthusiastic Poussin, the old man became by
sudden transfiguration Art itself,--art with all its secrets, its
transports, and its dreams.
"Yes, my dear Porbus," said Frenhofer, speaking half in reverie, "I
have never yet beheld a perfect woman; a body whose outlines were
faultless and whose flesh-tints--Ah! where lives she?" he cried,
interrupting his own words; "where lives the lost Venus of the
ancients, so long sought for, whose scattered beauty we snatch by
glimpses? Oh! to see for a moment, a single moment, the divine
completed nature,--the ideal,--I would give my all of fortune. Yes; I