| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Within the Tides by Joseph Conrad: shore, and so on. Cloete waits, gnawing his fingers; so anxious.
Cloete really had found a man for the job. Believe it or not, he
had found him inside the very boarding-house he lodged in -
somewhere about Tottenham Court Road. He had noticed down-stairs a
fellow - a boarder and not a boarder - hanging about the dark -
part of the passage mostly; sort of 'man of the house,' a slinking
chap. Black eyes. White face. The woman of the house - a widow
lady, she called herself - very full of Mr. Stafford; Mr. Stafford
this and Mr. Stafford that. . . Anyhow, Cloete one evening takes
him out to have a drink. Cloete mostly passed away his evenings in
saloon bars. No drunkard, though, Cloete; for company; liked to
Within the Tides |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Selected Writings of Guy De Maupassant by Guy De Maupassant: expressions, which were mangled by his accent. Then all began to
laugh at once, like mad women, and fell against each other,
repeating the words, which the baron then began to say all wrong,
in order that he might have the pleasure of hearing them say
doubtful things. They gave him as much of that stuff as he
wanted, for they were drunk after the first bottle of wine, and,
becoming themselves once more, and opening the door to their
usual habits, they kissed the mustaches on the right and left of
them, pinched their arms, uttered furious cries, drank out of
every glass, and sang French couplets, and bits of German songs,
which they had picked up in their daily intercourse with the
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Damnation of Theron Ware by Harold Frederic: the cushions about from room to room, like a wild woman.
A very interesting young lady, don't you find her so?"
Father Forbes let a wan smile play on his lips.
"What, our Celia?" he said. "Interesting! Why, Mr. Ware,
there is no one like her in the world. She is as unique as--
what shall I say?--as the Irish are among races.
Her father and mother were both born in mud-cabins, and she--
she might be the daughter of a hundred kings, except that
they seem mostly rather under-witted than otherwise.
She always impresses me as a sort of atavistic idealization
of the old Kelt at his finest and best. There in Ireland
The Damnation of Theron Ware |
