| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Don Quixote by Miquel de Cervantes: one of them who was in advance began shouting to Don Quixote, "Get out
of the way, you son of the devil, or these bulls will knock you to
pieces!"
"Rabble!" returned Don Quixote, "I care nothing for bulls, be they
the fiercest Jarama breeds on its banks. Confess at once,
scoundrels, that what I have declared is true; else ye have to deal
with me in combat."
The herdsman had no time to reply, nor Don Quixote to get out of the
way even if he wished; and so the drove of fierce bulls and tame
bullocks, together with the crowd of herdsmen and others who were
taking them to be penned up in a village where they were to be run the
Don Quixote |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Some Reminiscences by Joseph Conrad: Not that I think resignation the last word of wisdom. I am too
much the creature of my time for that. But I think that the
proper wisdom is to will what the gods will without perhaps being
certain what their will is--or even if they have a will of their
own. And in this matter of life and art it is not the Why that
matters so much to our happiness as the How. As the Frenchman
said, "Il y a toujours la maniere." Very true. Yes. There is
the manner. The manner in laughter, in tears, in irony, in
indignations and enthusiasms, in judgments--and even in love.
The manner in which, as in the features and character of a human
face, the inner truth is foreshadowed for those who know how to
Some Reminiscences |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from A Lover's Complaint by William Shakespeare: Her grievance with his hearing to divide:
If that from him there may be aught applied
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,
'Tis promised in the charity of age.
'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgement I am old;
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:
I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied
Love to myself, and to no love beside.
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