| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Elixir of Life by Honore de Balzac: stone, as some lithographers would have us believe.
When Don Juan Belvidero reached the age of sixty he settled in
Spain, and there in his old age he married a young and charming
Andalusian wife. But of set purpose he was neither a good husband
nor a good father. He had observed that we are never so tenderly
loved as by women to whom we scarcely give a thought. Dona Elvira
had been devoutly brought up by an old aunt in a castle a few
leagues from San-Lucar in a remote part of Andalusia. She was a
model of devotion and grace. Don Juan foresaw that this would be
a woman who would struggle long against a passion before
yielding, and therefore hoped to keep her virtuous until his
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Marie by H. Rider Haggard: Englishmen? I say that you have been using loopers, or else bullets
that were sawn in quarters and glued or tied with thread. Look, look!"
and he pointed to the wounds, of which in one case there were as many as
three on a single bird.
"Why not?" answered Pereira coolly. "The bargain was that we were to
use bullets, but it was never said that they should not be cut.
Doubtless the Heer Allan's were treated in the same way."
"No," I answered, "when I said that I would shoot with a bullet I meant
a whole bullet, not one that had been sawn in pieces and fixed together
again, so that after it left the muzzle it might spread out like shot.
But I do not wish to talk about the matter. It is in the hands of the
Marie |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The War in the Air by H. G. Wells: length at intervals crowds were assembling about excited
speakers; and when he lifted his eyes he saw the chimneys and
cable-stacks and roof spaces of New York, and everywhere now over
these the watching, debating people clustered, except where the
fires raged and the jets of water flew. Everywhere, too, were
flagstaffs devoid of flags; one white sheet drooped and flapped
and drooped again over the Park Row buildings. And upon the
lurid lights, the festering movement and intense shadows of this
strange scene, there was breaking now the cold, impartial dawn.
For Bert Smallways all this was framed in the frame of the open
porthole. It was a pale, dim world outside that dark and
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