| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Common Sense by Thomas Paine: Wherefore, this epistle is not so properly addressed to you as a religious,
but as a political body, dabbling in matters, which the professed Quietude
of your Principles instruct you not to meddle with. As you have, without
a proper authority for so doing, put yourselves in the place of the whole body
of the Quakers, so, the writer of this, in order to be on an equal rank
with yourselves, is under the necessity, of putting himself in the place
of all those, who, approve the very writings and principles, against which,
your testimony is directed: And he hath chosen this singular situation,
in order, that you might discover in him that presumption of character
which you cannot see in yourselves. For neither he nor you can have any
claim or title to POLITICAL REPRESENTATION.
Common Sense |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Soul of Man by Oscar Wilde: wishes, does not work with interest, and consequently cannot put
into his work what is best in him. Upon the other hand, whenever a
community or a powerful section of a community, or a government of
any kind, attempts to dictate to the artist what he is to do, Art
either entirely vanishes, or becomes stereotyped, or degenerates
into a low and ignoble form of craft. A work of art is the unique
result of a unique temperament. Its beauty comes from the fact
that the author is what he is. It has nothing to do with the fact
that other people want what they want. Indeed, the moment that an
artist takes notice of what other people want, and tries to supply
the demand, he ceases to be an artist, and becomes a dull or an
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf: "No wonder they get sick of playing stuff like this," she remarked
reading a bar or two; "they're really hymn tunes, played very fast,
with bits out of Wagner and Beethoven."
"Do you play? Would you play? Anything, so long as we can
dance to it!" From all sides her gift for playing the piano
was insisted upon, and she had to consent. As very soon she
had played the only pieces of dance music she could remember,
she went on to play an air from a sonata by Mozart.
"But that's not a dance," said some one pausing by the piano.
"It is," she replied, emphatically nodding her head. "Invent the steps."
Sure of her melody she marked the rhythm boldly so as to simplify
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