|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Father Goriot by Honore de Balzac:
though he will not own to it for fear of being laughed at. He
thought, as he arranged his hair, that a pretty woman's glances
would wander through the dark curls. He indulged in childish
tricks like any young girl dressing for a dance, and gazed
complacently at his graceful figure while he smoothed out the
creases of his coat.
"There are worse figures, that is certain," he said to himself.
Then he went downstairs, just as the rest of the household were
sitting down to dinner, and took with good humor the boisterous
applause excited by his elegant appearance. The amazement with
which any attention to dress is regarded in a lodging-house is a
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Droll Stories, V. 1 by Honore de Balzac:
not cost him very dearly, his attack upon the realm of his sovereign.
But maddened with this slight advantage, he cried, "I cannot live
without the possession of that lovely body, and those marvels of love.
Kill me then!" And again he attacked the royal preserves. The young
beauty, whose head was full of the king, was not even touched by this
great love, said gravely, "If you menace me further, it is not you but
myself I will kill." She glared at him so savagely that the poor man
was quite terrified, and commenced to deplore the evil hour in which
he had taken her to wife, and thus the night which should have been so
joyous, was passed in tears, lamentations, prayers, and ejaculations.
In vain he tempted her with promises; she should eat out of gold, she
Droll Stories, V. 1
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Purse by Honore de Balzac:
certain decorative repairs in his studio, was not surprised to
see the dark greasy paint, the oily stains, spots, and other
disagreeable accessories that varied the woodwork. And these
stigmata of poverty are not altogether devoid of poetry in an
Mademoiselle Leseigneur herself opened the door. On recognizing
the young artist she bowed, and at the same time, with Parisian
adroitness, and with the presence of mind that pride can lend,
she turned round to shut the door in a glass partition through
which Hippolyte might have caught sight of some linen hung by
lines over patent ironing stoves, an old camp-bed, some wood-