| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Hidden Masterpiece by Honore de Balzac: no better than a rich man who walks, and can only walk? Have I indeed
produced nothing?"
He gazed at the canvas through tears. Suddenly he raised himself
proudly and flung a lightning glance upon the two painters.
"By the blood, by the body, by the head of Christ, you are envious men
who seek to make me think she is spoiled, that you may steal her from
me. I--I see her!" he cried. "She is wondrously beautiful!"
At this moment Poussin heard the weeping of Gillette as she stood,
forgotten, in a corner.
"What troubles thee, my darling?" asked the painter, becoming once
more a lover.
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Dunwich Horror by H. P. Lovecraft: earth - was Wilbur Whateley's father? Born on Candlemas - nine
months after May Eve of 1912, when the talk about the queer earth
noises reached clear to Arkham - what walked on the mountains
that May night? What Roodmas horror fastened itself on the world
in half-human flesh and blood?'
During the ensuing weeks Dr
Armitage set about to collect all possible data on Wilbur Whateley
and the formless presences around Dunwich. He got in communication
with Dr Houghton of Aylesbury, who had attended Old Whateley in
his last illness, and found much to ponder over in the grandfather's
last words as quoted by the physician. A visit to Dunwich Village
The Dunwich Horror |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Madame Firmiani by Honore de Balzac: the reader is of those who sometimes think upon the dear ones they
have lost, if he is alone, if the day is waning or the night has come,
let him read on; otherwise, he should lay aside this book at once. If
he has never buried a good old relative, infirm and poor, he will not
understand these pages, which to some will seem redolent of musk, to
others as colorless and virtuous as those of Florian. In short, the
reader must have known the luxury of tears, must have felt the silent
pangs of a passing memory, the vision of a dear yet far-off Shade,--
memories which bring regret for all that earth has swallowed up, with
smiles for vanished joys.
And now, believe that the writer would not, for the wealth of England,
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