| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from Twice Told Tales by Nathaniel Hawthorne: worship!"
[1] Did Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should
suspect a mistake here. The Rev. Mr. Blackstone, though an
eccentric, is not known to have been an immoral man. We rather
doubt his identity with the priest of Merry Mount.
And with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the hallowed Maypole.
Nor long did it resist his arm. It groaned with a dismal sound;
it showered leaves and rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast;
and finally, with all its green boughs and ribbons and flowers,
symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the banner staff of
Merry Mount. As it sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew
Twice Told Tales |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from The Garden Party by Katherine Mansfield: came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the twentieth--fiftieth--
hundredth time he made the calculation.
"Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor's launch went off.
Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is to
say, the doctor's been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hours and
thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!" He gave a queer little half-whistle and
snapped his watch to again. "But I think we should have been told if there
was anything up--don't you, Mr. Gaven?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don't think there's anything to--anything to
worry about," said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of his
shoe. "At the same time--"
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from The Hidden Masterpiece by Honore de Balzac: man; I will give him my treasures,--paintings of Correggio, Michael-
Angelo, Titian; I will kiss the print of his feet in the dust,--but
make him my rival? Shame upon me! Ha! I am more a lover than I am a
painter. I shall have the strength to burn my Nut-girl ere I render my
last sigh; but suffer her to endure the glance of a man, a young man,
a painter?--No, no! I would kill on the morrow the man who polluted
her with a look! I would kill you,--you, my friend,--if you did not
worship her on your knees; and think you I would submit my idol to the
cold eyes and stupid criticisms of fools? Ah, love is a mystery! its
life is in the depths of the soul; it dies when a man says, even to
his friend, Here is she whom I love."
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