| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Buttered Side Down by Edna Ferber: was torture. To look at the codfish balls was agony. And so
Jennie went on, sampling, tasting, the scraps of food acting only
as an aggravation. Up one aisle, and down the next she went. And
then, just around the corner, she brought up before the grocery
department's pride and boast, the Scotch bakery. It is the store's
star vaudeville feature. All day long the gaping crowd stands
before it, watching David the Scone Man, as with sleeves rolled
high above his big arms, he kneads, and slaps, and molds, and
thumps and shapes the dough into toothsome Scotch confections.
There was a crowd around the white counters now, and the flat
baking surface of the gas stove was just hot enough, and David the
Buttered Side Down |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Hiero by Xenophon: [15] Lit. "they do not indulge in false additions, pretending to have
put more enemies to death than actually fell."
[16] Cf. "Hipparch," viii. 11; "Cyrop." VIII. iii. 25; "Thuc." i. 49.
But the tyrant, when he forebodes, or possibly perceives in actual
fact, some opposition brewing, and puts the suspects[17] to the sword,
knows he will not thereby promote the welfare of the state
collectively. The cold clear fact is, he will have fewer subjects to
rule over.[18] How can he show a cheerful countenance?[19] how magnify
himself on his achievement? On the contrary, his desire is to lessen
the proportions of what has taken place, as far as may be. He will
apologise for what he does, even in the doing of it, letting it appear
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Glasses by Henry James: another scene rose from the orchestra I almost did embrace Dawling,
whose first emotion on beholding me had visibly and ever so oddly
been a consciousness of guilt. I had caught him somehow in the
act, though that was as yet all I knew; but by the time we sank
noiselessly into our chairs again--for the music was supreme,
Wagner passed first--my demonstration ought pretty well to have
given him the limit of the criticism he had to fear. I myself
indeed, while the opera blazed, was only too afraid he might divine
in our silent closeness the very moral of my optimism, which was
simply the comfort I had gathered from seeing that if our
companion's beauty lived again her vanity partook of its life. I
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