|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Sons and Lovers by D. H. Lawrence:
"It IS funny!" he exclaimed. It worried and perplexed him.
"But yet--there's so much between us now I couldn't give her up."
"You know best," said Mrs. Morel. "But if it is as you say, I
wouldn't call it LOVE--at any rate, it doesn't look much like it."
"Oh, I don't know, mother. She's an orphan, and---"
They never came to any sort of conclusion. He seemed puzzled
and rather fretted. She was rather reserved. All his strength
and money went in keeping this girl. He could scarcely afford
to take his mother to Nottingham when he came over.
Paul's wages had been raised at Christmas to ten shillings,
to his great joy. He was quite happy at Jordan's, but his health
Sons and Lovers
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from My Bondage and My Freedom by Frederick Douglass:
invariably say they are contented, and that their masters are
kind. Slaveholders have been known to send spies among their
slaves, to ascertain, if possible, their views and feelings in
regard to their condition. The frequency of this had the effect
to establish among the slaves the maxim, that a still tongue
makes a wise head. They suppress the truth rather than take the
consequence of telling it, and, in so doing, they prove
themselves a part of the human family. If they have anything to
say of their master, it is, generally, something in his favor,
especially when speaking to strangers. I was frequently asked,
while a slave, if I had a kind master, and I do not remember ever
My Bondage and My Freedom
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart:
flame of a candle.
Harmony found the little hoard under her pillow that night when,
having seen Scatch and the Big Soprano off at the station, she
had come back alone to the apartment on the Siebensternstrasse.
The trunks were gone now. Only the concerto score still lay on
the piano, where little Scatchett, mentally on the dock at New
York with Henry's arms about her, had forgotten it. The candles
in the great chandelier had died in tears of paraffin that
spattered the floor beneath. One or two of the sockets were still
smoking, and the sharp odor of burning wickends filled the room.