| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Mrs. Warren's Profession by George Bernard Shaw: this way. But alas! that certain kind turns out on inquiry to be
simply the pretty, dainty kind: that is, the only kind that gets
the chance of acting on such reasoning. Read the first report of
the Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes [Bluebook C
4402, 8d., 1889]; read the Report on Home Industries (sacred
word, Home!) issued by the Women's Industrial Council [Home
Industries of Women in London, 1897, 1s., 12 Buckingham Street,
W. C.]; and ask yourself whether, if the lot in life therein
described were your lot in life, you would not prefer the lot of
Cleopatra, of Theodora, of the Lady of the Camellias, of Mrs
Tanqueray, of Zaza, of Iris. If you can go deep enough into
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf: insincerity. They did talk nonsense, he thought, the Ramsays; and he
pounced on this fresh instance with joy, making a note which, one of
these days, he would read aloud, to one or two friends. There, in a
society where one could say what one liked he would sarcastically
describe "staying with the Ramsays" and what nonsense they talked. It
was worth while doing it once, he would say; but not again. The women
bored one so, he would say. Of course Ramsay had dished himself by
marrying a beautiful woman and having eight children. It would shape
itself something like that, but now, at this moment, sitting stuck
there with an empty seat beside him, nothing had shaped itself at all.
It was all in scraps and fragments. He felt extremely, even
To the Lighthouse |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Taras Bulba and Other Tales by Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol: black-browed daughter about. So, one day, Pidorka burst into tears,
and caught the hand of her brother Ivas. "Ivas, my dear! Ivas, my
love! fly to Peter, my child of gold, like an arrow from a bow. Tell
him all: I would have loved his brown eyes, I would have kissed his
fair face, but my fate decrees otherwise. More than one handkerchief
have I wet with burning tears. I am sad and heavy at heart. And my own
father is my enemy. I will not marry the Pole, whom I do not love.
Tell him they are making ready for a wedding, but there will be no
music at our wedding: priests will sing instead of pipes and viols. I
shall not dance with my bridegroom: they will carry me out. Dark, dark
will be my dwelling of maple wood; and, instead of chimneys, a cross
Taras Bulba and Other Tales |
