| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from La Grenadiere by Honore de Balzac: ended, this adorable woman's sadness always seemed to be doubled; she
would cease to speak, and sit motionless and pensive, and her eyes
would fill with tears.
"Mother, why are you crying?" Louis asked one balmy June evening, just
as the twilight of a soft-lit night succeeded to a hot day.
Deeply moved by his trouble, she put her arm about the child's neck
and drew him to her.
"Because, my boy, the lot of Jameray Duval, the poor and friendless
lad who succeeded at last, will be your lot, yours and your brother's,
and I have brought it upon you. Before very long, dear child, you will
be alone in the world, with no one to help or befriend you. While you
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Troll Garden and Selected Stories by Willa Cather: into various traveling bags.
It was a little after one o'clock when he drove up to the
Waldorf, and after settling with the cabman, went into the
office. He registered from Washington; said his mother and
father had been abroad, and that he had come down to await the
arrival of their steamer. He told his story plausibly and had no
trouble, since he volunteered to pay for them in advance, in
engaging his rooms; a sleeping room, sitting room, and bath.
Not once, but a hundred times, Paul had planned this entry
into New York. He had gone over every detail of it with Charley
Edwards, and in his scrapbook at home there were pages of
The Troll Garden and Selected Stories |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Frances Waldeaux by Rebecca Davis: the face on which she looked last at night. When Clara
had noticed it, Lucy had said, "I am as fond of the dear
lady as if she were my own mother."
She sat down before it now, and taking out her sewing
began to work, glancing up at it, half smiling as to
a friend who talked to her. She thought of Furst Hugo
boiling soap, with a gentle pity, and of Jean with hot
disdain. What had Jean to do with it? The prince was
her own lover, as her gloves were her own.
But indeed, the prince and love were but shadows on the
far sky line to the little girl; the real things were her
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