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Today's Stichomancy for Josh Hartnett

The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Soul of a Bishop by H. G. Wells:

cloud of witnesses, great men, sainted men, subtle men, figures permanently historical, before whom one can do nothing but bow down in the utmost humility, here is a great instrument and organization--what would the world be without the witness of the church?--and on the other hand here are our masses out of hand and hostile, our industrial leaders equally hostile; there is a failure to grip, and that failure to grip is so clearly traceable to the fact that our ideas are not modern ideas, that when we come to profess our faith we find nothing in our mouths but antiquated Alexandrian subtleties and phrases and ideas that may have been quite alive, quite significant, quite adequate in Asia

The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from 1492 by Mary Johntson:

just then--Don Jayme or Juan Lepe--into long patience, into greater steadfastness. Into the inner fields came translucence, gold light; came and faded, but left strength.

Dona Beatrix raised her eyes and let them dwell upon me. ``Spain breeds bold knights,'' she said, ``but not so many after all who are bold within! Not so many, I think, as are found in Italy or in France.'' She paused a moment, looking at the sky above the roofs, then came back to me. ``It is hopeless, and you must see it, to talk in those terms to the only powers that can lead the Holy Office to forget that you live! It is hopeless to talk to the Queen, telling

The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf:

with her arms round Mrs Ramsay's knees, close as she could get, smiling to think that Mrs Ramsay would never know the reason of that pressure, she imagined how in the chambers of the mind and heart of the woman who was, physically, touching her, were stood, like the treasures in the tombs of kings, tablets bearing sacred inscriptions, which if one could spell them out, would teach one everything, but they would never be offered openly, never made public. What art was there, known to love or cunning, by which one pressed through into those secret chambers? What device for becoming, like waters poured into one jar, inextricably the same, one with the object one adored? Could the body achieve, or the mind, subtly mingling in the intricate passages of the brain? or the heart? Could loving,

To the Lighthouse