| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Moon-Face and Other Stories by Jack London: melancholy. He was the Leopard Man, but he did not look it. His business in
life, whereby he lived, was to appear in a cage of performing leopards before
vast audiences, and to thrill those audiences by certain exhibitions of nerve
for which his employers rewarded him on a scale commensurate with the thrills
he produced.
As I say, he did not look it. He was narrow-hipped, narrow-shouldered, and
anaemic, while he seemed not so much oppressed by gloom as by a sweet and
gentle sadness, the weight of which was as sweetly and gently borne. For an
hour I had been trying to get a story out of him, but he appeared to lack
imagination. To him there was no romance in his gorgeous career, no deeds of
daring, no thrills--nothing but a gray sameness and infinite boredom.
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Thuvia, Maid of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs: As fast as he could run Astok entered the main corridor
that led to the tower chamber. Would he reach the
door in time? What if the Heliumite should have already
emerged and he should run upon him in the passageway?
Astok felt a cold chill run up his spine. He had
no stomach to face that uncanny blade.
He was almost at the door. Around the next turn of the
corridor it stood. No, they had not left the apartment.
Evidently Vas Kor was still holding the Heliumite!
Astok could scarce repress a grin at the clever manner
in which he had outwitted the noble and disposed of
Thuvia, Maid of Mars |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Deserted Woman by Honore de Balzac: tears glittered in the deep shadows; perhaps his breathing sounded
faintly; perhaps unconsciously he trembled, or again it may have been
impossible that he should stand there, his presence unfelt by that
quick sense which grows to be an instinct, the glory, the delight, the
proof of perfect love. However it was, Mme. de Beauseant slowly turned
her face towards the doorway, and beheld her lover of bygone days.
Then Gaston de Nueil came forward a few paces.
"If you come any further, sir," exclaimed the Marquise, growing paler,
"I shall fling myself out of the window!"
She sprang to the window, flung it open, and stood with one foot on
the ledge, her hand upon the iron balustrade, her face turned towards
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