|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Vicar of Tours by Honore de Balzac:
twenty years to that exercise. Birotteau, who regarded his secret
wishes as crimes, would have been capable, out of contrition, of the
utmost devotion to his friend. The latter paid his debt of gratitude
for a friendship so ingenuously sincere by saying, a few days before
his death, as the vicar sat by him reading the "Quotidienne" aloud:
"This time you will certainly get the apartment. I feel it is all over
with me now."
Accordingly, it was found that the Abbe Chapeloud had left his library
and all his furniture to his friend Birotteau. The possession of these
things, so keenly desired, and the prospect of being taken to board by
Mademoiselle Gamard, certainly did allay the grief which Birotteau
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Travels and Researches in South Africa by Dr. David Livingstone:
the original was typed in (manually) twice and electronically compared.
[Note on text: Italicized words or phrases are CAPITALIZED.
Some obvious errors have been corrected.]
Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa.
Also called, Travels and Researches in South Africa;
or, Journeys and Researches in South Africa.
By David Livingstone [British (Scot) Missionary and Explorer--1813-1873.]
David Livingstone was born in Scotland, received his medical degree
from the University of Glasgow, and was sent to South Africa
by the London Missionary Society. Circumstances led him to try to meet
the material needs as well as the spiritual needs of the people he went to,
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Beast in the Jungle by Henry James:
sorely, if it would have lurked here or there. It would have at
all events sprung; what was at least complete was his belief in the
truth itself of the assurance given him. The change from his old
sense to his new was absolute and final: what was to happen had so
absolutely and finally happened that he was as little able to know
a fear for his future as to know a hope; so absent in short was any
question of anything still to come. He was to live entirely with
the other question, that of his unidentified past, that of his
having to see his fortune impenetrably muffled and masked.
The torment of this vision became then his occupation; he couldn't
perhaps have consented to live but for the possibility of guessing.