| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Travels with a Donkey in the Cevenne by Robert Louis Stevenson: once past this range which I was mounting, I should descend into
the garden of the world. Nor was I deceived, for I was now done
with rains and winds and a bleak country. The first part of my
journey ended here; and this was like an induction of sweet sounds
into the other and more beautiful.
There are other degrees of FEYNESS, as of punishment, besides the
capital; and I was now led by my good spirits into an adventure
which I relate in the interest of future donkey-drivers. The road
zigzagged so widely on the hillside, that I chose a short cut by
map and compass, and struck through the dwarf woods to catch the
road again upon a higher level. It was my one serious conflict
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Puck of Pook's Hill by Rudyard Kipling: came out of Normandy to take his England, great knights
(have ye heard?) came and strove hard to serve the Duke,
because he promised them lands here, and small knights
followed the great ones. My folk in Normandy were
poor; but a great knight, Engerrard of the Eagle -
Engenulf De Aquila - who was kin to my father, followed
the Earl of Mortain, who followed William the Duke, and
I followed De Aquila. Yes, with thirty men-at-arms out of
my father's house and a new sword, I set out to conquer
England three days after I was made knight. I did not
then know that England would conquer me. We went up
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Intentions by Oscar Wilde: living are mingled together in unnatural conjunction and hurry
through the holy city. New prodigies await them there. The veil
of the temple - the unpierceable veil - is rent asunder from top to
bottom, and that dreaded recess containing the Hebrew mysteries -
the fatal ark with the tables and seven-branched candelabrum - is
disclosed by the light of unearthly flames to the God-deserted
multitude.
Rembrandt never painted this sketch, and he was quite right. It
would have lost nearly all its charms in losing that perplexing
veil of indistinctness which affords such ample range wherein the
doubting imagination may speculate. At present it is like a thing
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