|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from A Start in Life by Honore de Balzac:
himself back in his corner.
"Husson of what, of where?" asked Mistigris.
"It is a great family," replied the count. "Husson de la Cerisaie;
monsieur was born beneath the steps of the Imperial throne."
Oscar colored crimson to the roots of his hair, and was penetrated
through and through with a dreadful foreboding.
They were now about to descend the steep hill of La Cave, at the foot
of which, in a narrow valley, flanked by the forest of Saint-Martin,
stands the magnificent chateau of Presles.
"Messieurs," said the count, "I wish you every good fortune in your
various careers. Monsieur le colonel, make your peace with the King of
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Taras Bulba and Other Tales by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol:
him, and could not refrain each time from saying, 'A devil, a perfect
devil!' But I must introduce you as speedily as possible to my father,
the chief character of this story.
"My father was a remarkable man in many respects. He was an artist of
rare ability, a self-taught artist, without teachers or schools,
principles and rules, carried away only by the thirst for perfection,
and treading a path indicated by his own instincts, for reasons
unknown, perchance, even to himself. Through some lofty and secret
instinct he perceived the presence of a soul in every object. And this
secret instinct and personal conviction turned his brush to Christian
subjects, grand and lofty to the last degree. His was a strong
Taras Bulba and Other Tales
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from A House of Pomegranates by Oscar Wilde:
and the earth seemed to spin beneath his feet, and his brain grew
troubled, and a great terror fell on him, as of some evil thing
that was watching him, and at last he became aware that under the
shadow of a rock there was a figure that had not been there before.
It was a man dressed in a suit of black velvet, cut in the Spanish
fashion. His face was strangely pale, but his lips were like a
proud red flower. He seemed weary, and was leaning back toying in
a listless manner with the pommel of his dagger. On the grass
beside him lay a plumed hat, and a pair of riding-gloves gauntleted
with gilt lace, and sewn with seed-pearls wrought into a curious
device. A short cloak lined with sables hang from his shoulder,