| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne: by your visa, that I came by Suez."
"Very well, sir."
The consul proceeded to sign and date the passport, after which
he added his official seal. Mr. Fogg paid the customary fee,
coldly bowed, and went out, followed by his servant.
"Well?" queried the detective.
"Well, he looks and acts like a perfectly honest man," replied the consul.
"Possibly; but that is not the question. Do you think, consul,
that this phelgmatic gentleman resembles, feature by feature,
the robber whose description I have received?"
"I concede that; but then, you know, all descriptions--"
Around the World in 80 Days |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Finished by H. Rider Haggard: "I expect that the Kaffirs will have looted the wagon and be on
the way home with your oxen by now," he said when I had finished.
"Are you not afraid that they will follow us here?" I asked.
"Oh no, Mr. Quatermain. We do business with these people, also
they sometimes come to be doctored by Rodd when they are sick, so
this place is sacred ground to them. They stopped hunting you
when they got to the Yellow-wood swamp where our land begins, did
they not?"
"Yes, but now I want to hunt them. Can you give me any help?
Those oxen are tired out and footsore, so we might be able to
catch them up."
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Poems of William Blake by William Blake: I see thee like an infant wrapped in the Lillys leaf;
Ah weep not little voice, thou can'st not speak, but thou can'st weep:
Is this a Worm? I see they lay helpless & naked: weeping
And none to answer, none to cherish thee with mothers smiles.
The Clod of Clay heard the Worms voice & rais'd her pitying head:
She bowd over the weeping infant, and her life exhald
In milky fondness, then on Thel she fix'd her humble eyes
O beauty of the vales of Har, we live not for ourselves,
Thou seest me the meanest thing, and so I am indeed:
My bosom of itself is cold, and of itself is dark,
But he that loves the lowly, pours his oil upon my head
Poems of William Blake |
