|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Ferragus by Honore de Balzac:
lodger in the rue Soly, the Bourignard of Justin, the convict of the
police, and the dead man of the day before.
"Monsieur, not a sound, not a word," said Bourignard, whose voice he
recognized. The man was elegantly dressed; he wore the order of the
Golden-Fleece, and a medal on his coat. "Monsieur," he continued, and
his voice was sibilant like that of a hyena, "you increase my efforts
against you by having recourse to the police. You will perish,
monsieur; it has now become necessary. Do you love Madame Jules? Are
you beloved by her? By what right do you trouble her peaceful life,
and blacken her virtue?"
Some one entered the card-room. Ferragus rose to go.
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from American Notes by Rudyard Kipling:
idea to your mind? It makes me regard the whole pack of you as
heathens--real heathens--not the sort you send missions
to--creatures of another flesh and blood. You ought to have been
shot, not dead, but through the stomach, for your share in the
scandalous business, and the thing you call your newspaper ought
to have been sacked by the mob, and the managing proprietor
HE--From which, I suppose you have nothing of that kind in your
Oh! "Pioneer," venerable "Pioneer," and you not less honest
press of India, who are occasionally dull but never blackguardly,
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Spirit of the Border by Zane Grey:
pass it in the fulfillment of his vow, his loneliness was now shared by a lad
who loved him.
Joe was awakened by the merry chirp of a chipmunk that every morning ran along
the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge. Getting up, he went to the
back of the cave, where he found Wetzel combing out his long hair. The lad
thrust his hands into the cold pool, and bathed his face. The water was icy
cold, and sent an invigorating thrill through him. Then he laughed as he took
a rude comb Wetzel handed to him.
"My scalp is nothing to make an Indian very covetous, is it?" said he, eyeing
in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell over the hunter's
The Spirit of the Border