| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from A Kidnapped Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum: door admitting you into fresh air and sunshine again.
Well, these Daemons of the Caves, thinking they had great cause to
dislike old Santa Claus, held a meeting one day to discuss the matter.
"I'm really getting lonesome," said the Daemon of Selfishness. "For
Santa Claus distributes so many pretty Christmas gifts to all the
children that they become happy and generous, through his example, and
keep away from my cave."
"I'm having the same trouble," rejoined the Daemon of Envy. "The
little ones seem quite content with Santa Claus, and there are few,
indeed, that I can coax to become envious."
"And that makes it bad for me!" declared the Daemon of Hatred. "For
A Kidnapped Santa Claus |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from 'Twixt Land & Sea by Joseph Conrad: "What's the matter now?" I said, startled, but in no very
sympathetic mood.
She shook her bowed, overweighted head and cried in a stifled voice
but with a rising inflection:
"Go away! Go away! Go away!"
I got up then and approached her, with a strange sort of anxiety.
I looked down at her round, strong neck, then stooped low enough to
peep at her face. And I began to tremble a little myself.
"What on earth are you gone wild about, Miss Don't Care?"
She flung herself backwards violently, her head going over the back
of the chair. And now it was her smooth, full, palpitating throat
'Twixt Land & Sea |
The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Alexandria and her Schools by Charles Kingsley: not believe that the last of the Alexandrians was under no divine
teaching, because he had be-systemed himself into confused notions of
what that teaching was like. Yes, there was good in poor old Proclus;
and it too came from the only source whence all good comes. Were there
no good in him I could not laugh at him as I have done; I could only
hate him. There are moments when he rises above his theories; moments
when he recurs in spirit, if not in the letter, to the faith of Homer,
almost to the faith of Philo. Whether these are the passages of his
which his modern admirers prize most, I cannot tell. I should fancy
not: nevertheless I will read you one of them.
He is about to commence his discourses on the Parmenides, that book in
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