| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin: the intertropical regions, are not arctic, but belong to the northern
temperate zones. As Mr. H. C. Watson has recently remarked, 'In receding
from polar towards equatorial latitudes, the Alpine or mountain floras
really become less and less arctic.' Many of the forms living on the
mountains of the warmer regions of the earth and in the southern hemisphere
are of doubtful value, being ranked by some naturalists as specifically
distinct, by others as varieties; but some are certainly identical, and
many, though closely related to northern forms, must be ranked as distinct
species.
Now let us see what light can be thrown on the foregoing facts, on the
belief, supported as it is by a large body of geological evidence, that the
On the Origin of Species |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Works of Samuel Johnson by Samuel Johnson: he may be drawn to expatiate without end. Every
man has some habitual contortion of body, or
established mode of expression, which never fails to raise
mirth if it be pointed out to notice. By premonitions
of these particularities I secured our pleasantry. Our
companion entered with his usual gaiety, and began
to partake of our noisy cheerfulness, when the
conversation was imperceptibly diverted to a subject
which pressed upon his tender part, and extorted
the expected shrug, the customary exclamation, or
the predicted remark. A general clamour of joy
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Rivers to the Sea by Sara Teasdale: Yet I was free as an untethered cloud
In the great space between the sky and sea,
And might have blown before the wind of joy
Like a bright banner woven by the sun.
I did not know the longing in the night--
You who have waked me cannot give me sleep.
All things in all the world can rest, but I,
Even the smooth brief respite of a wave
When it gives up its broken crown of foam,
Even that little rest I may not have.
And yet all quiet loves of friends, all joy
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