|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad:
without a thought for herself. I concluded I would go
and give her back her portrait and those letters myself.
Curiosity? Yes; and also some other feeling perhaps.
All that had been Kurtz's had passed out of my hands:
his soul, his body, his station, his plans, his ivory,
his career. There remained only his memory and his Intended--
and I wanted to give that up, too, to the past, in a way--
to surrender personally all that remained of him with me
to that oblivion which is the last word of our common fate.
I don't defend myself. I had no clear perception of what it was I
really wanted. Perhaps it was an impulse of unconscious loyalty,
Heart of Darkness
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Woodlanders by Thomas Hardy:
"You mistake," said the other, quickly. "Mrs. Charmond has been
away for some time, but she's at home now."
Giles did not contradict him, though he felt sure that the
gentleman was wrong.
"You are a native of this place?" the stranger said.
"Well, you are happy in having a home. It is what I don't
"You come from far, seemingly?"
"I come now from the south of Europe."
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Apology by Plato:
which I endured only to find at last the oracle irrefutable. After the
politicians, I went to the poets; tragic, dithyrambic, and all sorts. And
there, I said to myself, you will be instantly detected; now you will find
out that you are more ignorant than they are. Accordingly, I took them
some of the most elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what
was the meaning of them--thinking that they would teach me something. Will
you believe me? I am almost ashamed to confess the truth, but I must say
that there is hardly a person present who would not have talked better
about their poetry than they did themselves. Then I knew that not by
wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they
are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not