| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Long Odds by H. Rider Haggard: very bad temper, indeed, although I was pretty well used to these sort
of occurrences, and soothed myself by taking a rifle and going to kill
something. For a couple of hours I poked about without seeing anything
that I could get a shot at, but at last, just as I was again within
seventy yards of the waggon, I put up an old Impala ram from behind a
mimosa thorn. He ran straight for the waggon, and it was not till he
was passing within a few feet of it that I could get a decent shot at
him. Then I pulled, and caught him half-way down the spine. Over he
went, dead as a door-nail, and a pretty shot it was, though I ought not
to say it. This little incident put me into rather a better humour,
especially as the buck had rolled right against the after-part of the
Long Odds |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Gobseck by Honore de Balzac: stag's. On occasion he would be a martyr to prudence. One day, when he
happened to have gold in his pockets, a double napoleon worked its
way, somehow or other, out of his fob and fell, and another lodger
following him up the stairs picked up the coin and returned it to its
owner.
" 'That isn't mine!' said he, with a start of surprise. 'Mine indeed!
If I were rich, should I live as I do!'
"He made his cup of coffee himself every morning on the cast-iron
chafing dish which stood all day in the black angle of the grate; his
dinner came in from a cookshop; and our old porter's wife went up at
the prescribed hour to set his room in order. Finally, a whimsical
Gobseck |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Dawn O'Hara, The Girl Who Laughed by Edna Ferber: with the rescued basting spoon.
"You can't have cookies before dinner. They're bad
for your insides."
"Can too," disputes Hans. "Fwieda dives us tookies.
Want tooky!" wailingly.
"Please, ple-e-e-ease, Auntie Dawnie dearie,"
wheedles Sheila, wriggling her soft little fingers in my
hand.
"But Mother never lets you have cookies before
dinner," I retort severely. "She knows they are bad for
you."
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