| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Tales of Unrest by Joseph Conrad: a pale-faced youth strolled, overcome by weariness, by the side of his
stick and with the tails of his overcoat flapping gently near his
heels; horses stepped gingerly on the greasy pavement, tossing their
heads; two young girls passed by, talking vivaciously and with shining
eyes; a fine old fellow strutted, red-faced, stroking a white
moustache; and a line of yellow boards with blue letters on them
approached us slowly, tossing on high behind one another like some
queer wreckage adrift upon a river of hats.
"Ye-e-es," repeated Jackson. His clear blue eyes looked about,
contemptuous, amused and hard, like the eyes of a boy. A clumsy string
of red, yellow, and green omnibuses rolled swaying, monstrous and
Tales of Unrest |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Pool in the Desert by Sara Jeanette Duncan: our having made the voyage with them was the best possible reason
for declining to lay eyes on them for the rest of our natural lives.
'Mamma has such strong prejudices,' Cecily remarked, as she
reluctantly gave up the idea; and I waited to see whether the
graceless Tottenham would unmurmuringly take down the Bakewells.
How strong must be the sentiment that turns a man into a boa-
constrictor without a pang of transmigration! But no, this time he
was faithful to the principles of his pre-Cecilian existence. 'They
are rather Boojums,' he declared. 'You would think so, too, if you
knew them better. It is that kind of excellent person that makes
the real burden of India.' I could have patted him on the back.
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Macbeth by William Shakespeare: There would haue beene a time for such a word:
To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow,
Creepes in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last Syllable of Recorded time:
And all our yesterdayes, haue lighted Fooles
The way to dusty death. Out, out, breefe Candle,
Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player,
That struts and frets his houre vpon the Stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a Tale
Told by an Ideot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
Macbeth |
