| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Animal Farm by George Orwell: equally terrible, but it seemed to all of them that it was far worse now
that it was happening among themselves. Since Jones had left the farm,
until today, no animal had killed another animal. Not even a rat had been
killed. They had made their way on to the little knoll where the
half-finished windmill stood, and with one accord they all lay down as
though huddling together for warmth--Clover, Muriel, Benjamin, the cows,
the sheep, and a whole flock of geese and hens--everyone, indeed, except
the cat, who had suddenly disappeared just before Napoleon ordered the
animals to assemble. For some time nobody spoke. Only Boxer remained on
his feet. He fidgeted to and fro, swishing his long black tail against his
sides and occasionally uttering a little whinny of surprise. Finally he
Animal Farm |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Contrast by Royall Tyler: lap speaks of having heard it read, but does not men-
tion whether it was from a manuscript or printed
copy. It was printed at New Haven in 1785.
The 'Contrast,' however, was the first to meet suc-
cessfully the critical judgment and approval of a pro-
fessional manager. This fact alone should redeem it
from the neglect and inattention it has heretofore met
with. Besides, it possesses considerable intrinsic merit,
and as an acting play will compare favorably with
many of the English comedies of the period; and
though, perhaps, meager in plot and incident, it is
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Letters of Two Brides by Honore de Balzac: pretty veins on his forehead swelled, and the convulsions began. For a
whole hour before the doctors came, I held in my arms that merry baby,
all lilies and roses, the blossom of my life, my pride, and my joy,
lifeless as a piece of wood; and his eyes! I cannot think of them
without horror. My pretty Armand was a mere mummy--black, shriveled,
misshapen.
A doctor, two doctors, brought from Marseilles by Louis, hovered about
like birds of ill omen; it made me shudder to look at them. One spoke
of brain fever, the other saw nothing but an ordinary case of
convulsions in infancy. Our own country doctor seemed to me to have
the most sense, for he offered no opinion. "It's teething," said the
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