The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Running a Thousand Miles for Freedom by William and Ellen Craft: parish, to work on the plantation of John F. Miller.
A few weeks later, his relatives, who had remained
at New Orleans, learned that he had died of the
fever of the country. They immediately sent for
the two girls; but they had disappeared, and the
relatives, notwithstanding repeated and persevering
inquiries and researches, could find no traces of
them. They were at length given up for dead.
Dorothea was never again heard of; nor was any
thing known of Salome from 1818 till 1843.
In the summer of that year, Madame Karl, a
Running a Thousand Miles for Freedom |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Soul of Man by Oscar Wilde: industry necessary for the making money is also very demoralising.
In a community like ours, where property confers immense
distinction, social position, honour, respect, titles, and other
pleasant things of the kind, man, being naturally ambitious, makes
it his aim to accumulate this property, and goes on wearily and
tediously accumulating it long after he has got far more than he
wants, or can use, or enjoy, or perhaps even know of. Man will
kill himself by overwork in order to secure property, and really,
considering the enormous advantages that property brings, one is
hardly surprised. One's regret is that society should be
constructed on such a basis that man has been forced into a groove
|
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Silverado Squatters by Robert Louis Stevenson: fathoms on fathoms of gray sea vapour, like a cloudy sky - a
dull sight for the artist, and a painful experience for the
invalid. But to sit aloft one's self in the pure air and
under the unclouded dome of heaven, and thus look down on the
submergence of the valley, was strangely different and even
delightful to the eyes. Far away were hilltops like little
islands. Nearer, a smoky surf beat about the foot of
precipices and poured into all the coves of these rough
mountains. The colour of that fog ocean was a thing never to
be forgotten. For an instant, among the Hebrides and just
about sundown, I have seen something like it on the sea
|