| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Twelve Stories and a Dream by H. G. Wells: "The back door," he directed, and Mr. Ledbetter staggered through
a conservatory, leaving a wake of smashed flower-pots behind him.
"Never mind the crockery," said the stout man; "it's good for trade.
We wait here until a quarter past. You can put those things down. You
have!"
Mr. Ledbetter collapsed panting on the trunk. "Last night," he gasped,
"I was asleep in my little room, and I no more dreamt--"
"There's no need for you to incriminate yourself," said the stout
gentleman, looking at the lock of the revolver. He began to hum.
Mr. Ledbetter made to speak, and thought better of it.
There presently came the sound of a bell, and Mr. Ledbetter was
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Theaetetus by Plato: and for a moment the definition appears to be accepted. But soon the
Protagorean thesis is pronounced to be suicidal; for the adversaries of
Protagoras are as good a measure as he is, and they deny his doctrine. He
is then supposed to reply that the perception may be true at any given
instant. But the reply is in the end shown to be inconsistent with the
Heraclitean foundation, on which the doctrine has been affirmed to rest.
For if the Heraclitean flux is extended to every sort of change in every
instant of time, how can any thought or word be detained even for an
instant? Sensible perception, like everything else, is tumbling to pieces.
Nor can Protagoras himself maintain that one man is as good as another in
his knowledge of the future; and 'the expedient,' if not 'the just and
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from A Drama on the Seashore by Honore de Balzac: years for shell-fish to earn a living, and sustained in his patience
by a single sentiment. How many hours wasted on a lonely shore! How
many hopes defeated by a change of weather! He was hanging there to a
granite rock, his arm extended like that of an Indian fakir, while his
father, sitting in their hovel, awaited, in silence and darkness, a
meal of the coarsest bread and shell-fish, if the sea permitted.
"Do you ever drink wine?" I asked.
"Three or four times a year," he replied.
"Well, you shall drink it to-day,--you and your father; and we will
send you some white bread."
"You are very kind, monsieur."
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