| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf: Mr Paunceforte's visit, to see everything pale, elegant, semitransparent.
Then beneath the colour there was the shape. She could see it all so
clearly, so commandingly, when she looked: it was when she took her brush
in hand that the whole thing changed. It was in that moment's flight
between the picture and her canvas that the demons set on her who often
brought her to the verge of tears and made this passage from conception to
work as dreadful as any down a dark passage for a child. Such she often
felt herself--struggling against terrific odds to maintain her courage; to
say: "But this is what I see; this is what I see," and so to clasp some
miserable remnant of her vision to her breast, which a thousand forces did
their best to pluck from her. And it was then too, in that chill and
To the Lighthouse |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Return of Tarzan by Edgar Rice Burroughs: not so pleased.
"It seems to delight you to think that you are to leave
Paris, and that we shall not see each other for months, perhaps.
Tarzan, you are a most ungrateful beast!" and D'Arnot laughed.
"No, Paul; I am a little child. I have a new toy, and I am
tickled to death."
And so it came that on the following day Tarzan left
Paris en route for Marseilles and Oran.
Chapter 7
The Dancing Girl of Sidi Aissa
Tarzan's first mission did not bid fair to be either
The Return of Tarzan |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Voice of the City by O. Henry: barber who had studied his profession in a Harlem
dancing academy. There was no one to set her right,
for here in the big city they do it unto all of us.
How many of us are badly shaved daily and taught
the two-step imperfectly by ex-pupils of Bastien Le
Page and Gerome? The most pathetic sight in New
York -- except the manners of the rush-hour crowds
-- is the dreary march of the hopeless army of Me-
diocrity. Here Art is no benignant goddess, but
a Circe who turns her wooers into mewing Toms and
Tabbies who linger about the doorsteps of her abode,
The Voice of the City |
