| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Stories From the Old Attic by Robert Harris: it." When she stopped to attend to his interruption, he noticed that
her hair was rubber banded into a vertical column on top of her head.
The young man was sitting off to one side, wearing jeans and a
T-shirt printed with the words, "None of the Above." Nearby was an
open ream of copier paper, many sheets of which he had evidently
wrinkled up into a ball and tossed at a trash can a few feet away,
with highly indifferent accuracy. A few of the sheets had been
written on with multicolored felt-tip pens and placed carelessly in
several piles.
"What's going on here?" demanded the Vice President.
"We work here," said the young man.
|
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Village Rector by Honore de Balzac: slow step like a man overcome with emotion.
The consultation had taken place in the great salon of the chateau.
This vast room communicated with a state bedchamber, furnished in red
damask, in which Graslin had displayed a certain opulent magnificence.
Veronique had not entered it six times in fourteen years; the grand
apartments were quite useless to her, and she never received her
friends there. But now the effort she had made to accomplish her last
obligation, and to overcome her last repugnance had exhausted her
strength, and she was wholly unable to mount the stairs to her own
rooms.
When the illustrious physician had taken the patient's hand and felt
|
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot: Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
The Waste Land |
