| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Flower Fables by Louisa May Alcott: and higher they floated up, still darker and darker grew the air,
closer the damp mist gathered, while the black clouds rolled and
tossed, like great waves, to and fro.
"Ah!" sighed the weary little Spirit, "shall I never see the light
again, or feel the warm winds on my cheek? It is a dreary way indeed,
and but for the Seasons' gifts I should have perished long ago; but
the heavy clouds MUST pass away at last, and all be fair again.
So hasten on, good Breeze, and bring me quickly to my journey's end."
Soon the cold vapors vanished from her path, and sunshine shone
upon her pleasantly; so she went gayly on, till she came up among
Flower Fables |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Walking by Henry David Thoreau: rigmarole,--IERY FIERY ICHERY VAN, TITTLE-TOL-TAN. I see in my
mind a herd of wild creatures swarming over the earth, and to
each the herdsman has affixed some barbarous sound in his own
dialect. The names of men are, of course, as cheap and
meaningless as BOSE and TRAY, the names of dogs.
Methinks it would be some advantage to philosophy if men were
named merely in the gross, as they are known. It would be
necessary only to know the genus and perhaps the race or variety,
to know the individual. We are not prepared to believe that every
private soldier in a Roman army had a name of his own--because we
have not supposed that he had a character of his own.
Walking |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Muse of the Department by Honore de Balzac: gave no sign; but Dinah sometimes detected in his eyes, as he looked
at her, a sort of icy venom which gave the lie to his increased
politeness and gentleness. She understood at last that this was not,
as she had supposed, a mere domestic squabble; but when she forced an
explanation with her "insect," as Monsieur Gravier called him, she
found the cold, hard impassibility of steel. She flew into a passion;
she reproached him for her life these eleven years past; she made--
intentionally--what women call a scene. But "little La Baudraye" sat
in an armchair with his eyes shut, and listened phlegmatically to the
storm. And, as usual, the dwarf got the better of his wife. Dinah saw
that she had done wrong in writing; she vowed never to write another
The Muse of the Department |
