| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Don Quixote by Miquel de Cervantes: Frontino like Ruggiero's, nor Bootes or Peritoa, as they say the
horses of the sun were called, nor is he called Orelia, like the horse
on which the unfortunate Rodrigo, the last king of the Goths, rode
to the battle where he lost his life and his kingdom."
"I'll bet," said Sancho, "that as they have given him none of
these famous names of well-known horses, no more have they given him
the name of my master's Rocinante, which for being apt surpasses all
that have been mentioned."
"That is true," said the bearded countess, "still it fits him very
well, for he is called Clavileno the Swift, which name is in
accordance with his being made of wood, with the peg he has in his
Don Quixote |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from An Open Letter on Translating by Dr. Martin Luther: write books? So do I.
I will go even further with my bragging: I can exegete the psalms
and the prophets, and they cannot. I can translate, and they
cannot. I can read Holy Scriptures, and they cannot. I can pray,
they cannot. Coming down to their level, I can do their
dialectics and philosophy better than all of them put together.
Plus I know that not one of them understands Aristotle. If, in
fact, any one of them can correctly understand one part or chapter
of Aristotle, I will eat my hat! No, I am not overdoing it for I
have been educated in and have practiced their science since my
childhood. I recognize how broad and deep it is. They, too, know
|
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Schoolmistress and Other Stories by Anton Chekhov: days in the hospital and then he died. . . . God's will."
"Turn round, you devil!" comes out of the darkness. "Have you
gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!"
"Drive on! drive on! . . ." says the officer. "We shan't get
there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!"
The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and
with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at
the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently
disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya,
Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box.
. . . Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour
The Schoolmistress and Other Stories |
