| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Island Nights' Entertainments by Robert Louis Stevenson: spill of paper, and I stood stupid, watching it burn, and thinking
we were going aloft with Tiapolo, which was none of my views. The
second took to a better rate, though faster than I cared about; and
at that I got my wits again, hauled Uma clear of the passage, blew
out and dropped the lantern, and the pair of us groped our way into
the bush until I thought it might be safe, and lay down together by
a tree.
"Old lady," I said, "I won't forget this night. You're a trump,
and that's what's wrong with you."
She humped herself close up to me. She had run out the way she
was, with nothing on her but her kilt; and she was all wet with the
|
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Lady Susan by Jane Austen: ridiculous, and despised by every man who sees her.
Artlessness will never do in love matters; and that girl is born a
simpleton who has it either by nature or affectation. I am not yet certain
that Reginald sees what she is about, nor is it of much consequence. She is
now an object of indifference to him, and she would be one of contempt were
he to understand her emotions. Her beauty is much admired by the Vernons,
but it has no effect on him. She is in high favour with her aunt
altogether, because she is so little like myself, of course. She is exactly
the companion for Mrs. Vernon, who dearly loves to be firm, and to have
all the sense and all the wit of the conversation to herself: Frederica
will never eclipse her. When she first came I was at some pains to prevent
Lady Susan |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Memoir of Fleeming Jenkin by Robert Louis Stevenson: march solemnly without breaking them; a little Arab in one dirty
rag pokes fun at two splendid little Turks with brilliant fezzes;
wiry mountaineers in dirty, full, white kilts, shouldering long
guns and one hand on their pistols, stalk untamed past a dozen
Turkish soldiers, who look sheepish and brutal in worn cloth jacket
and cotton trousers. A headless, wingless lion of St. Mark still
stands upon a gate, and has left the mark of his strong clutch. Of
ancient times when Crete was Crete, not a trace remains; save
perhaps in the full, well-cut nostril and firm tread of that
mountaineer, and I suspect that even his sires were Albanians, mere
outer barbarians.
|
