| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin by Benjamin Franklin: Lord Baltimore, which had subsisted 70 years, and wrote for them
all their papers and messages in their dispute with the Assembly.
He was a proud, angry man, and as I had occasionally in the answers
of the Assembly treated his papers with some severity, they being
really weak in point of argument and haughty in expression,
he had conceived a mortal enmity to me, which discovering itself
whenever we met, I declin'd the proprietary's proposal that he
and I should discuss the heads of complaint between our two selves,
and refus'd treating with any one but them. They then by his advice
put the paper into the hands of the Attorney and Solicitor-General
for their opinion and counsel upon it, where it lay unanswered
The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Euthyphro by Plato: justice which attends to the gods, as there is the other part of justice
which attends to men.
SOCRATES: That is good, Euthyphro; yet still there is a little point about
which I should like to have further information, What is the meaning of
'attention'? For attention can hardly be used in the same sense when
applied to the gods as when applied to other things. For instance, horses
are said to require attention, and not every person is able to attend to
them, but only a person skilled in horsemanship. Is it not so?
EUTHYPHRO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: I should suppose that the art of horsemanship is the art of
attending to horses?
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Tono Bungay by H. G. Wells: sleepers in order to wheel the quap aboard were as ill-conceived
as that sort of work can be--and that sort of work can at times
be very ill-conceived. The captain had a superstitious fear of
his hold: he became wildly gesticulatory and expository and
incompetent at the bare thought of it. His shouts still echo in
my memory, becoming as each crisis approached less and less like
any known tongue.
But I cannot now write the history of those days of blundering
and toil: of how Milton, one of the boys, fell from a plank to
the beach, thirty feet perhaps, with his barrow and broke his arm
and I believe a rib, of how I and Pollack set the limb and nursed
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