| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from A Personal Record by Joseph Conrad: he called "My Poles" in a capricious and savage manner. Sallow
in complexion, with a Tartar physiognomy and fierce little eyes,
he walked with his fists clenched, his body bent forward, darting
suspicious glances from under an enormous cocked hat. His
intelligence was limited, and his sanity itself was doubtful.
The hereditary taint expressed itself, in his case, not by mystic
leanings as in his two brothers, Alexander and Nicholas (in their
various ways, for one was mystically liberal and the other
mystically autocratic), but by the fury of an uncontrollable
temper which generally broke out in disgusting abuse on the
parade ground. He was a passionate militarist and an amazing
A Personal Record |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf: But how could Minta say now that she would not have him? Not if she
agreed to spend whole afternoons trapesing about the country alone--for
Andrew would be off after his crabs--but possibly Nancy was with them.
She tried to recall the sight of them standing at the hall door after
lunch. There they stood, looking at the sky, wondering about the
weather, and she had said, thinking partly to cover their shyness,
partly to encourage them to be off (for her sympathies were with Paul),
"There isn't a cloud anywhere within miles," at which she could feel
little Charles Tansley, who had followed them out, snigger. But she
did it on purpose. Whether Nancy was there or not, she could not be
certain, looking from one to the other in her mind's eye.
To the Lighthouse |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Copy-Cat & Other Stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman: aunt Dorothy, who was the school friend and not his
aunt at all, and would he not like to come and live
with her, because she had not any dear little boy;
and he was obliged to submit to having his curls
twisted around feminine fingers, and to being kissed
and hugged, and a whole chapter of ordeals, before
he was finally in bed, with his mother's kiss moist
upon his lips, and free to assert himself.
That night Arnold Carruth realized himself as
having an actual horror of his helpless state of pam-
pered childhood. The man stirred in the soul of the
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