| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Brother of Daphne by Dornford Yates: petrol gets into my tank- "
"I hope you don't take more than you should."
"I'm sober enough to see you've got a fine pair of headlights."
"I'm afraid you're of rather a coming-on disposition, Pomfret."
"Oh, I can do my thirty-five. His licence will show you that.
"Oh, Pomfret, did you get it endorsed?"
"It was his own fault. Kept egging me on all the time, and then,
when we were stopped, tells the police that it's a physical
impossibility for me to do more than fifteen. And I had to stand
there and hear him say it! He told me afterwards that it was
only a facon de parler, but I was angry. I simply shook with
The Brother of Daphne |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Amazing Interlude by Mary Roberts Rinehart: they got, but requiring much. The world knows now of the starvation of
German-occupied Belgium. What it does not know and may never know is of
the struggle during those early days to feed the heroic Belgian Army in
their wet and almost untenable trenches.
Hospital trains they could improvise out of what rolling stock remained
to them. Money could be borrowed, and was. But food? Clothing?
Ammunition? In his little villa on the seacoast the Belgian King knew
that his soldiers were hungry, and paced the floor of his tiny
living-room; and over in an American city whose skyline was as pointed
with furnace turrets as Constantinople's is with mosques, over there
Sara Lee heard that call of hunger, and - put on her engagement ring.
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Beast in the Jungle by Henry James: struggling up for him at the end, that, whatever might have
happened or not happened, he would have come round of himself to
the light. The incident of an autumn day had put the match to the
train laid from of old by his misery. With the light before him he
knew that even of late his ache had only been smothered. It was
strangely drugged, but it throbbed; at the touch it began to bleed.
And the touch, in the event, was the face of a fellow-mortal. This
face, one grey afternoon when the leaves were thick in the alleys,
looked into Marcher's own, at the cemetery, with an expression like
the cut of a blade. He felt it, that is, so deep down that he
winced at the steady thrust. The person who so mutely assaulted
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