| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence: first time what a queer subtle thing hate is. For the first time, she
had consciously and definitely hated Clifford, with vivid hate: as if
he ought to be obliterated from the face of the earth. And it was
strange, how free and full of life it made her feel, to hate him and to
admit it fully to herself.--'Now I've hated him, I shall never be able
to go on living with him,' came the thought into her mind.
On the level the keeper could push the chair alone. Clifford made a
little conversation with her, to show his complete composure: about
Aunt Eva, who was at Dieppe, and about Sir Malcolm, who had written to
ask would Connie drive with him in his small car, to Venice, or would
she and Hilda go by train.
Lady Chatterley's Lover |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Light of Western Stars by Zane Grey: off an' noses off an' hands off; when in later days I'd jest kill
a man quick, same as Wild Bill.
"News drifts into town thet night thet a gang of cut-throats hed
murdered ole Bill Warren an' carried off his gurl. I gathers up
a few good gun-men, an' we rid out an' down the river-bottom, to
an ole log cabin, where the outlaws hed a rondevoo. We rid up
boldlike, an' made a hell of a racket. Then the gang began to
throw lead from the cabin, an' we all hunted cover. Fightin'
went on all night. In the mornin' all my outfit was killed but
two, an' they was shot up bad. We fought all day without eatin'
or drinkin', except some whisky I hed, an' at night I was on the
The Light of Western Stars |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Memories and Portraits by Robert Louis Stevenson: with life." Man's one method, whether he reasons or creates, is to
half-shut his eyes against the dazzle and confusion of reality.
The arts, like arithmetic and geometry, turn away their eyes from
the gross, coloured and mobile nature at our feet, and regard
instead a certain figmentary abstraction. Geometry will tell us of
a circle, a thing never seen in nature; asked about a green circle
or an iron circle, it lays its hand upon its mouth. So with the
arts. Painting, ruefully comparing sunshine and flake-white, gives
up truth of colour, as it had already given up relief and movement;
and instead of vying with nature, arranges a scheme of harmonious
tints. Literature, above all in its most typical mood, the mood of
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