| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Road to Oz by L. Frank Baum: heavy curtains of cloth of gold.
Beside this doorway stood a huge drum. The fox-captain went to this
drum and knocked his knees against it-- first one knee and then the
other--so that the drum said: "Boom-boom."
"You must all do exactly what I do," ordered the captain; so the
shaggy man pounded the drum with his knees, and so did Dorothy and so
did Button-Bright. The boy wanted to keep on pounding it with his
little fat knees, because he liked the sound of it; but the captain
stopped him. Toto couldn't pound the drum with his knees and he
didn't know enough to wag his tail against it, so Dorothy pounded the
drum for him and that made him bark, and when the little dog barked
The Road to Oz |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath by H. P. Lovecraft: that he was a great help. He even took Carter to an upper room
in that ancient house and shewed him a crude picture which a traveller
had scratched on the clay wall in the old days when men were bolder
and less reluctant to visit Ngranek's higher slopes. The old tavern-keeper's
great-grandfather had heard from his great-grandfather that the
traveller who scratched that picture had climbed Ngranek and seen
the carven face, here drawing it for others to behold, but Carter
had very great doubts, since the large rough features on the wall
were hasty and careless, and wholly overshadowed by a crowd of
little companion shapes in the worst possible taste, with horns
and wings and claws and curling tails.
The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Touchstone by Edith Wharton: punctuality; but the altered conditions of her life, the vistas of
new relationships disclosed by every phrase, made her
communications as impersonal as a piece of journalism. It was as
though the state, the world, indeed, had taken her off his hands,
assuming the maintenance of a temperament that had long exhausted
his slender store of reciprocity.
In the retrospective light shed by the letters he was blinded to
their specific meaning. He was not a man who concerned himself
with literature, and they had been to him, at first, simply the
extension of her brilliant talk, later the dreaded vehicle of a
tragic importunity. He knew, of course, that they were wonderful;
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