|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy:
with respectfully bowed head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence
lasted for about a minute.
"However, if you command it, Your Majesty," said Kutuzov, lifting
his head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning,
but submissive general.
He touched his horse and having called Miloradovich, the commander
of the column, gave him the order to advance.
The troops again began to move, and two battalions of the Novgorod
and one of the Apsheron regiment went forward past the Emperor.
As this Apsheron battalion marched by, the red-faced Miloradovich,
without his greatcoat, with his Orders on his breast and an enormous
War and Peace
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Purse by Honore de Balzac:
was ready with a fresh canvas, and his palette set, his brushes
cleaned, the spot and the light carefully chosen. And till the
dinner hour he worked at the painting with the ardor artists
throw into their whims. He went again that evening to the Baronne
de Rouville's, and remained from nine till eleven. Excepting the
different topics of conversation, this evening was exactly like
the last. The two old men arrived at the same hour, the same game
of piquet was played, the same speeches made by the players, the
sum lost by Adelaide's friend was not less considerable than on
the previous evening; only Hippolyte, a little bolder, ventured
to chat with the young girl.
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton by Edith Wharton:
insensate object to be dusted and pushed about with the chairs
and tables. And this deepening apathy held her fast at Lyng, in
spite of the urgent entreaties of friends and the usual medical
recommendation of "change." Her friends supposed that her
refusal to move was inspired by the belief that her husband would
one day return to the spot from which he had vanished, and a
beautiful legend grew up about this imaginary state of waiting.
But in reality she had no such belief: the depths of anguish
inclosing her were no longer lighted by flashes of hope. She was
sure that Boyne would never come back, that he had gone out of
her sight as completely as if Death itself had waited that day on