|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Island of Doctor Moreau by H. G. Wells:
until their time is ripe. Let them not know that I am the Master."
"The Master's will is sweet," said the Dog-man, with the ready tact
of his canine blood.
"But one has sinned," said I. "Him I will kill, whenever I may meet him.
When I say to you, `That is he,' see that you fall upon him.
And now I will go to the men and women who are assembled together."
For a moment the opening of the hut was blackened by the exit of
the Dog-man. Then I followed and stood up, almost in the exact spot
where I had been when I had heard Moreau and his staghound pursuing me.
But now it was night, and all the miasmatic ravine about me was black;
and beyond, instead of a green, sunlit slope, I saw a red fire,
The Island of Doctor Moreau
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from A Book of Remarkable Criminals by H. B. Irving:
Kilkenny about 1845. At an early age he left his native land
for Australia, and commenced his professional career by being
sentenced under the name of James Wilson--the same initials as
those of James Wharton of Queensland--to twelve months'
imprisonment for vagrancy. Of the sixteen years he passed in
Victoria he spent thirteen in prison, first for stealing, then in
steady progression for highway robbery and burglary. Side by
side with the practical and efficient education in crime
furnished by the Victorian prisons of that day, Butler availed
himself of the opportunity to educate his mind. It was during
this period that he found inspiration and encouragement in the
A Book of Remarkable Criminals
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Albert Savarus by Honore de Balzac:
despairing lover could endure no companionship. He walked through the
streets alone, between eleven o'clock and midnight. At one in the
morning, Albert, to whom sleep had been unknown for the past three
days, was sitting in his library in a deep armchair, his face as pale
as if he were dying, his hands hanging limp, in a forlorn attitude
worthy of the Magdalen. Tears hung on his long lashes, tears that dim
the eyes, but do not fall; fierce thought drinks them up, the fire of
the soul consumes them. Alone, he might weep. And then, under the
kiosk, he saw a white figure, which reminded him of Francesca.
"And for three months I have had no letter from her! What has become
of her? I have not written for two months, but I warned her. Is she