|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from A Passion in the Desert by Honore de Balzac:
satisfied the day before, he got up to go out of the cave; the panther
let him go out, but when he had reached the summit of the hill she
sprang with the lightness of a sparrow hopping from twig to twig, and
rubbed herself against his legs, putting up her back after the manner
of all the race of cats. Then regarding her guest with eyes whose
glare had softened a little, she gave vent to that wild cry which
naturalists compare to the grating of a saw.
"She is exacting," said the Frenchman, smilingly.
He was bold enough to play with her ears; he caressed her belly and
scratched her head as hard as he could. When he saw that he was
successful, he tickled her skull with the point of his dagger,
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Life of the Spider by J. Henri Fabre:
Perseverance spells success. The pair are now face to face, she
motionless and grave, he all excitement. With the tip of his leg,
he ventures to touch the plump wench. He has gone too far, daring
youth that he is! Panic-stricken, he takes a header, hanging by
his safety-line. It is only for a moment, however. Up he comes
again. He has learnt, from certain symptoms, that we are at last
yielding to his blandishments.
With his legs and especially with his palpi, or feelers, he teases
the buxom gossip, who answers with curious skips and bounds.
Gripping a thread with her front tarsi, or fingers, she turns, one
after the other, a number of back somersaults, like those of an
The Life of the Spider
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Life of the Spider by J. Henri Fabre:
against her heels, is about to make us wonder at her devotion.
Whether she come up from her shaft to lean upon the kerb and bask
in the sun, whether she suddenly retire underground in the face of
danger, or whether she be roaming the country before settling down,
never does she let go her precious bag, that very cumbrous burden
in walking, climbing or leaping. If, by some accident, it become
detached from the fastening to which it is hung, she flings herself
madly on her treasure and lovingly embraces it, ready to bite whoso
would take it from her. I myself am sometimes the thief. I then
hear the points of the poison-fangs grinding against the steel of
my pincers, which tug in one direction while the Lycosa tugs in the
The Life of the Spider