|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Memories and Portraits by Robert Louis Stevenson:
complete although unready sympathies, and fine, full,
discriminative flow of language, fit him out to be the best of
talkers; so perhaps he is with some, not quite with me - PROXIME
ACCESSIT, I should say. He sings the praises of the earth and the
arts, flowers and jewels, wine and music, in a moonlight,
serenading manner, as to the light guitar; even wisdom comes from
his tongue like singing; no one is, indeed, more tuneful in the
upper notes. But even while he sings the song of the Sirens, he
still hearkens to the barking of the Sphinx. Jarring Byronic notes
interrupt the flow of his Horatian humours. His mirth has
something of the tragedy of the world for its perpetual background;
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Marie by H. Rider Haggard:
"But now we are together once more and all is right, just as what your
reverend father always said it would be with those who go to church on
Sunday, like me when there was nothing else to do." And again he fell
to kissing my foot.
"Hans," I said, "you saw the camp. Was the Missie Marie there?"
"Baas, how can I tell, who never went into it? But the wagon she slept
in was not there; no, nor that of the Vrouw Prinsloo or of the Heer
"Thank God!" I gasped, then added: "Where were you trying to get to,
Hans, when you ran away from the camp?"
"Baas, I thought perhaps that the Missie and the Prinsloos and the
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Lesser Bourgeoisie by Honore de Balzac:
Cerizet to sound you as to a marriage--"
"Which I refused," interrupted la Peyrade, "and which I now refuse
again, more vehemently than ever."
"That's the question," said the old man. "I think, on the contrary,
that you will accept it; and it is to talk over this affair with you
that I have so long desired a meeting."
"But this crazy girl that you are flinging at my head," said la
Peyrade, "what is she to you? She can't be your daughter, or you would
put more decency into your hunt for a husband."
"This young girl," replied du Portail, "is the daughter of one of my
friends who died about ten years ago; at his death I took her to live