| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Nana, Miller's Daughter, Captain Burle, Death of Olivier Becaille by Emile Zola: great avenue, a perfect corridor of shadow, at the end of which a
bright spot of sunlight gleamed like a star. They stood in silent,
wondering admiration, and then little by little exclamations burst
from their lips. They had been trying hard to joke about it all
with a touch of envy at heart, but this decidedly and immeasurably
impressed them. What a genius that Irma was! A sight like this
gave you a rattling notion of the woman! The trees stretched away
and away, and there were endlessly recurrent patches of ivy along
the wall with glimpses of lofty roofs and screens of poplars
interspersed with dense masses of elms and aspens. Was there no end
to it then? The ladies would have liked to catch sight of the
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The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Philosophy 4 by Owen Wister: "Oscar?" said Bertie, with an equal shout.
"No, John. John has. Came home last night and waked me up and told
me."
"Good for John," remarked Bertie, pensively.
Now, to the undergraduate mind of that day the Bird-in-Hand tavern was
what the golden fleece used to be to the Greeks,-- a sort of shining,
remote, miraculous thing, difficult though not impossible to find, for
which expeditions were fitted out. It was reported to be somewhere in
the direction of Quincy, and in one respect it resembled a ghost: you
never saw a man who had seen it himself; it was always his cousin, or
his elder brother in '79. But for the successful explorer a dinner and
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf: that he wanted to disparage Shakespeare and come to the rescue of the man
who stands eternally in the door of the lift, he picked a leaf sharply
from the hedge. All this would have to be dished up for the young men at
Cardiff next month, he thought; here, on his terrace, he was merely
foraging and picnicking (he threw away the leaf that he had picked so
peevishly) like a man who reaches from his horse to pick a bunch of roses,
or stuffs his pockets with nuts as he ambles at his ease through the lanes
and fields of a country known to him from boyhood. It was all familiar;
this turning, that stile, that cut across the fields. Hours he would
spend thus, with his pipe, of an evening, thinking up and down and in and
out of the old familiar lanes and commons, which were all stuck about with
To the Lighthouse |
