| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The First Men In The Moon by H. G. Wells: waist, and pulled him gently to follow our guide, who again went on ahead.
Cavor resisted. "We may just as well begin explaining ourselves now. They
may think we are new animals, a new sort of mooncalf perhaps! It is most
important that we should show an intelligent interest from the outset."
He began to shake his head violently. "No, no," he said, "me not come on
one minute. Me look at 'im."
" Isn't there some geometrical point you might bring in apropos of that
affair? " I suggested, as the Selenites conferred again.
"Possibly a parabolic -" be began.
He yelled loudly, and leaped six feet or more!
One of the four armed moon-men had pricked him with a goad!
The First Men In The Moon |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Lady Windermere's Fan by Oscar Wilde: to retire into a convent, or become a hospital nurse, or something
of that kind, as people do in silly modern novels. That is stupid
of you, Arthur; in real life we don't do such things - not as long
as we have any good looks left, at any rate. No - what consoles
one nowadays is not repentance, but pleasure. Repentance is quite
out of date. And besides, if a woman really repents, she has to go
to a bad dressmaker, otherwise no one believes in her. And nothing
in the world would induce me to do that. No; I am going to pass
entirely out of your two lives. My coming into them has been a
mistake - I discovered that last night.
LORD WINDERMERE. A fatal mistake.
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Touchstone by Edith Wharton: increased; and if man is at times indirectly flattered by the
moral superiority of woman, her mental ascendency is extenuated by
no such oblique tribute to his powers. The attitude of looking up
is a strain on the muscles; and it was becoming more and more
Glennard's opinion that brains, in a woman, should be merely the
obverse of beauty. To beauty Mrs. Aubyn could lay no claim; and
while she had enough prettiness to exasperate him by her
incapacity to make use of it, she seemed invincibly ignorant of
any of the little artifices whereby women contrive to palliate
their defects and even to turn them into graces. Her dress never
seemed a part of her; all her clothes had an impersonal air, as
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