| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Father Goriot by Honore de Balzac: plain to her at once that there was SOME OTHER ATTRACTION, to use
her own expression. In short, it was evident that the hope she
had so fondly cherished was a baseless delusion, and that she
would "never make anything out of that man yonder," in the
Countess' forcible phrase. The Countess seemed to have been a
judge of character. Mme. Vauquer's aversion was naturally more
energetic than her friendship, for her hatred was not in
proportion to her love, but to her disappointed expectations. The
human heart may find here and there a resting-place short of the
highest height of affection, but we seldom stop in the steep,
downward slope of hatred. Still, M. Goriot was a lodger, and the
Father Goriot |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from A Footnote to History by Robert Louis Stevenson: blame or the credit.
To understand the feelings of self-reproach and bitterness with
which Sewall took the field, the reader must see Laupepa's letter
of farewell to the consuls of England and America. It is singular
that this far from brilliant or dignified monarch, writing in the
forest, in heaviness of spirit and under pressure for time, should
have left behind him not only one, but two remarkable and most
effective documents. The farewell to his people was touching; the
farewell to the consuls, for a man of the character of Sewall, must
have cut like a whip. "When the chief Tamasese and others first
moved the present troubles," he wrote, "it was my wish to punish
|
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Margret Howth: A Story of To-day by Rebecca Harding Davis: her head on her hands. The little figure, the bent head, the
quivering chin brought up her childhood to him. She used to sit
so when he had tormented her, waiting to be coaxed back to love
and smiles again. The hard man's eyes filled with tears, as he
thought of it. He watched the deep, tearless sobs that shook her
breast: he had wounded her to death,--his bonny Margret! She was
like a dead thing now: what need to torture her longer? Let him
be manly and go out to his solitary life, taking the remembrance
of what he had done with him for company. He rose
uncertainly,--then came to her: was that the way to leave her?
"I am going, Margret," he whispered, "but let me tell you a story
Margret Howth: A Story of To-day |
