|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Amazing Interlude by Mary Roberts Rinehart:
The man who had gone ashore called another. The gangway was drawn in.
The engines began to vibrate under foot. Sara Lee, breathless and
terrified, stood close to a cabin door and remained immovable. At one
moment it seemed as if a seaman was coming forward to where she stood.
But he did not come.
The Calais boat was waiting until the other steamer had got well out of
the harbor. The fog had lifted, and the searchlight was moving over
the surface. It played round the channel steamer without touching it.
But none of this was visible to Sara Lee.
At last the lights of the quay began to recede. The little boat rocked
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Another Study of Woman by Honore de Balzac:
have anything to say to her? That is the question. Thus your perfect
lady may perhaps give occasion to calumny, never to slander."
"It is all so horribly true," said the Princesse de Cadignan.
"And so," said Blondet, "our 'perfect lady' lives between English
hypocrisy and the delightful frankness of the eighteenth century--a
bastard system, symptomatic of an age in which nothing that grows up
is at all like the thing that has vanished, in which transition leads
nowhere, everything is a matter of degree; all the great figures
shrink into the background, and distinction is purely personal. I am
fully convinced that it is impossible for a woman, even if she were
born close to a throne, to acquire before the age of five-and-twenty
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad:
attempt to make a night of it, and finally back again to his
menaced home, where he sat down fatigued behind the counter, and
they crowded urgently round him, like a pack of hungry black
hounds. After locking up the house and putting out the gas he took
them upstairs with him - a dreadful escort for a man going to bed.
His wife had preceded him some time before, and with her ample form
defined vaguely under the counterpane, her head on the pillow, and
a hand under the cheek offered to his distraction the view of early
drowsiness arguing the possession of an equable soul. Her big eyes
stared wide open, inert and dark against the snowy whiteness of the
linen. She did not move.
The Secret Agent