| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Aspern Papers by Henry James: with the strange ways they were liable to take up there; but the Misses
Bordereau formed altogether a new type of the American absentee.
Indeed it was plain that the American name had ceased to have
any application to them--I had seen this in the ten minutes I
spent in the old woman's room. You could never have said whence
they came, from the appearance of either of them; wherever it
was they had long ago dropped the local accent and fashion.
There was nothing in them that one recognized, and putting the question
of speech aside they might have been Norwegians or Spaniards.
Miss Bordereau, after all, had been in Europe nearly three-quarters
of a century; it appeared by some verses addressed to her by
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Myths and Myth-Makers by John Fiske: wood. She was slain, carried to the beggar's hovel, and eaten.
In the course of three years thirteen other children
mysteriously disappeared, but no one knew whom to suspect. At
last an innkeeper missed a pair of ducks, and having no good
opinion of this beggar's honesty, went unexpectedly to his
cabin, burst suddenly in at the door, and to his horror found
him in the act of hiding under his cloak a severed head; a
bowl of fresh blood stood under the oven, and pieces of a
thigh were cooking over the fire.[79]
[78] Baring-Gould, Werewolves, p. 81.
[79] Baring-Gould, op. cit. chap. xiv.
Myths and Myth-Makers |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Another Study of Woman by Honore de Balzac: death to win one of her glances. She had been left with an amount of
fortune sufficient for a woman who had loved and was adored; but the
Restoration, to which she owed renewed lustre, made it seem inadequate
in comparison with her name. In my position I was so fatuous as never
to dream of a suspicion. Though my jealousy would have been of a
hundred and twenty Othello-power, that terrible passion slumbered in
me as gold in the nugget. I would have ordered my servant to thrash me
if I had been so base as ever to doubt the purity of that angel--so
fragile and so strong, so fair, so artless, pure, spotless, and whose
blue eyes allowed my gaze to sound it to the very depths of her heart
with adorable submissiveness. Never was there the slightest hesitancy
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