| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from At the Mountains of Madness by H. P. Lovecraft: in our favor - which made the carvings so awesomely informative
to us, and which caused us to place their photography and transcription
above all other considerations. In certain rooms the dominant
arrangement was varied by the presence of maps, astronomical charts,
and other scientific designs of an enlarged scale - these things
giving a naive and terrible corroboration to what we gathered
from the pictorial friezes and dadoes. In hinting at what the
whole revealed, I can only hope that my account will not arouse
a curiosity greater than sane caution on the part of those who
believe me at all. It would be tragic if any were to be allured
to that realm of death and horror by the very warning meant to
At the Mountains of Madness |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey: reversed her dark thoughts.
The following day, a warm and muggy one threatening rain awhile
Jane was resting in the court, a horseman clattered through he
grove and up to the hitching-rack. He leaped off and approached
Jane with the manner of a man determined to execute difficult
mission, yet fearful of its reception. In the gaunt, wiry figure
and the lean, brown face Jane recognized one of her Mormon
riders, Blake. It was he of whom Judkins had long since spoken.
Of all the riders ever in her employ Blake owed her the most, and
as he stepped before her, removing his hat and making manly
efforts to subdue his emotion, he showed that he remembered.
Riders of the Purple Sage |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Some Reminiscences by Joseph Conrad: the MS. was in his hand. He tendered it to me with a steady look
but without a word. I took it in silence. He sat down on the
couch and still said nothing. I opened and shut a drawer under
my desk, on which a filled-up log-slate lay wide open in its
wooden frame waiting to be copied neatly into the sort of book I
was accustomed to write with care, the ship's log-book. I turned
my back squarely on the desk. And even then Jacques never
offered a word. "Well, what do you say?" I asked at last. "Is
it worth finishing?" This question expressed exactly the whole
of my thoughts.
"Distinctly," he answered in his sedate, veiled voice and then
Some Reminiscences |
