|The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll:
heroes to be so strangely alike in their personal habits; nor do I
believe that he would have accepted the faculty of turning
head-over-heels as any proof at all of royal descent. Yet it appeared
that King Lear, after deep meditation, could think of no other argument
by which to prove his kingship: and, as this was the last of the 'Bits'
of Shakespeare ("We never do more than three," Sylvie explained in a
whisper), Bruno gave the audience quite a long series of somersaults
before he finally retired, leaving the enraptured Frogs all crying out
"More! More!" which I suppose was their way of encoring a performance.
But Bruno wouldn't appear again, till the proper time came for telling
Sylvie and Bruno
|The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Garden Party by Katherine Mansfield:
staring at the wall?"
Kezia and her grandmother were taking their siesta together. The little
girl, wearing only her short drawers and her under-bodice, her arms and
legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of her grandma's bed, and
the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown, sat in a rocker at the
window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room that they
shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light varnished wood
and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the shabbiest, the simplest.
The dressing-table, for instance, was a packing-case in a sprigged muslin
petticoat, and the mirror above was very strange; it was as though a little
piece of forked lightning was imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a
|The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The House of Dust by Conrad Aiken:
And then, besides, she might find out I'm married.
Well, there is more--I'm getting old and timid--
The years have gnawed my will. I've lost my nerve!
I never strike out boldly as I used to--
But sit here, painting violets, and remember
That thrilling night. Photographers, she said,
Asked her to pose for them; her eyes and forehead,--
Dark brown eyes, and a smooth and pallid forehead,--
Were thought so beautiful.--And so they were.
Pauline . . . These violets are like words remembered . . .
Darling! she whispered . . . Darling! . . . Darling! . . . Darling!