| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Atheist's Mass by Honore de Balzac: bedside, and the first time I pulled him through; but two years
after he had a relapse; in spite of the utmost care, in spite of
the greatest exertions of science, he succumbed. No king was ever
nursed as he was. Yes, Bianchon, to snatch that man from death I
tried unheard-of things. I wanted him to live long enough to show
him his work accomplished, to realize all his hopes, to give
expression to the only need for gratitude that ever filled my
heart, to quench a fire that burns in me to this day.
"Bourgeat, my second father, died in my arms," Desplein went on,
after a pause, visibly moved. "He left me everything he possessed
by a will he had had made by a public scrivener, dating from the
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from A Voyage to Abyssinia by Father Lobo: convinced that we might land without scruple, and to give the
patriarch notice of it ordered a volley of our muskets to be fired,
which was answered by the cannon of the two ships that lay at a
distance, for fear of giving the Moors any cause of suspicion by
their approach. The chec and his attendants, though I had given
them notice that we were going to let off our guns in honour of the
King their master, could not forbear trembling at the fire and
noise. They left us soon after, and next morning we landed our
baggage, consisting chiefly of the patriarch's library, some
ornaments for the church, some images, and some pieces of calico,
which were of the same use as money. Most of the soldiers and
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Across The Plains by Robert Louis Stevenson: really, employed; and what with the impulse of increasing health
and the continual provocation of romantic scenes, he became
tormented with the desire to work. He enjoyed a strenuous idleness
full of visions, hearty meals, long, sweltering walks, mirth among
companions; and still floating like music through his brain,
foresights of great works that Shakespeare might be proud to have
conceived, headless epics, glorious torsos of dramas, and words
that were alive with import. So in youth, like Moses from the
mountain, we have sights of that House Beautiful of art which we
shall never enter. They are dreams and unsubstantial; visions of
style that repose upon no base of human meaning; the last heart-
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