| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Father Goriot by Honore de Balzac: allowed himself to be overreached at this period of his life
(they called him Monsieur Goriot very respectfully then) that
gave Mme. Vauquer the meanest opinion of his business abilities;
she looked on him as an imbecile where money was concerned.
Goriot had brought with him a considerable wardrobe, the gorgeous
outfit of a retired tradesman who denies himself nothing. Mme.
Vauquer's astonished eyes beheld no less than eighteen cambric-
fronted shirts, the splendor of their fineness being enhanced by
a pair of pins each bearing a large diamond, and connected by a
short chain, an ornament which adorned the vermicelli-maker's
shirt front. He usually wore a coat of corn-flower blue; his
Father Goriot |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from A Second Home by Honore de Balzac: the magnificence, were like this damp and gloomy labyrinth, where the
antiquaries still find historical curiosities to admire. For instance,
on the house then forming the corner where the Rue du Tourniquet
joined the Rue de la Tixeranderie, the clamps might still be seen of
two strong iron rings fixed to the wall, the relics of the chains put
up every night by the watch to secure public safety.
This house, remarkable for its antiquity, had been constructed in a
way that bore witness to the unhealthiness of these old dwellings;
for, to preserve the ground-floor from damp, the arches of the cellars
rose about two feet above the soil, and the house was entered up three
outside steps. The door was crowned by a closed arch, of which the
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The White Moll by Frank L. Packard: the image of their Maker did such things. They were going to kill
a man to-night - an innocent man whom they had made their pawn.
She swept the jewels from her lap to the blanket, and rising, seized
the candle, went to the door, looked out, and, holding the candle
high above her head, peered down the stairs. Yes, he was gone.
There was no one there.
She locked the door again, returned to the bed, set the candle down
upon the chair, and stood there, her face white and drawn, staring
with wide, tormented eyes about her. Murder. Danglar had spoken
of it with inhuman callousness - and had laughed at it. They were
going to take a man's life. And there was only herself, already
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