|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Gambara by Honore de Balzac:
Prophet; horsemen arrive (G major, E flat, B flat, G minor, and still
common time). The mass of men gathers like an avalanche; the false
Prophet has begun on a tribe the work he will achieve over a world (G
"He promises the Arabs universal dominion, and they believe him
because he is inspired. The /crescendo/ begins (still in the
dominant). Here come some flourishes (in C major) from the brass,
founded on the harmony, but strongly marked, and asserting themselves
as an expression of the first triumphs. Medina has gone over to the
Prophet, and the whole army marches on Mecca (an explosion of sound in
C major). The whole power of the orchestra is worked up like a
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from La Grenadiere by Honore de Balzac:
"Monsieur le Comte, your wife, Lady Brandon, died at Saint-Cyr, near
Tours, in the department of Indre-et-Loire. She forgave you."
"Sign yourself----" she stopped, hesitating and perturbed.
"Are you feeling worse?" asked Louis.
"Put 'Louis-Gaston,' " she went on.
She sighed, then she went on.
"Seal the letter, and direct it. To Lord Brandon, Brandon Square, Hyde
Park, London, Angleterre.--That is right. When I am dead, post the
letter in Tours, and prepay the postage.--Now," she added, after a
pause, "take the little pocketbook that you know, and come here, my
dear child. . . . There are twelve thousand francs in it," she said,
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Buttered Side Down by Edna Ferber:
Gertie had a country-bred horror of holey stockings. She darned
the hole, yawning, her aching feet pressed against the smooth, cool
leg of the iron bed. That done, she had had the colossal courage
to wash her face, slap cold cream on it, and push back the cuticle
around her nails.
Seated huddled on the side of her thin little iron bed, Gertie
was brushing her hair bravely, counting the strokes somewhere in
her sub-conscious mind and thinking busily all the while of
something else. Her brush rose, fell, swept downward, rose, fell,
"Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety -- Oh, darn
Buttered Side Down