| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Modeste Mignon by Honore de Balzac: scion of a parliamentary house accepted the smile as an approval of
her doctrine.
"And, therefore, my dear Madame Mignon," she went on, "you have taken
Modeste's fancies, which are nothing but the results of her reading,
for a love-affair. Remember, she is just twenty. Girls fall in love
with themselves at that age; they dress to see themselves well-
dressed. I remember I used to make my little sister, now dead, put on
a man's hat and pretend we were monsieur and madame. You see, you had
a very happy youth in Frankfort; but let us be just,--Modeste is
living here without the slightest amusement. Although, to be sure, her
every wish is attended to, still she knows she is shut up and watched,
Modeste Mignon |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Maid Marian by Thomas Love Peacock: on his knee, saying, "God save King Richard."
The foresters, friar and all, dropped on their knees together,
and repeated in chorus: "God save King Richard."
"Rise, rise," said Richard, smiling: "Robin is king here, as his lady
hath shown. I have heard much of thee, Robin, both of thy present and thy
former state. And this, thy fair forest-queen, is, if tales say true,
the lady Matilda Fitzwater."
Marian signed acknowledgment.
"Your father," said the king, "has approved his fidelity to me,
by the loss of his lands, which the newness of my return,
and many public cares, have not yet given me time to restore:
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Deserted Woman by Honore de Balzac: symptoms of both. When a human being is transplanted into an
uncongenial soil, to lead a starved, stunted existence, there is
always a little discomfort over the transition. Then, gradually, if
nothing removes him from his surroundings, he grows accustomed to
them, and adapts himself to the vacuity which grows upon him and
renders him powerless. Even now, Gaston's lungs were accustomed to the
air; and he was willing to discern a kind of vegetable happiness in
days that brought no mental exertion and no responsibilities. The
constant stirring of the sap of life, the fertilizing influences of
mind on mind, after which he had sought so eagerly in Paris, were
beginning to fade from his memory, and he was in a fair way of
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