Tag Archives: I write like

I write like

17 Aug

Amazing. All I did was following the invitation of I WRITE LIKE by entering the full copy of Who’s afraid of Richard H. Levey and now I know that I write like H. P. Lovecraft. Now I know that I follow the idea that life is incomprehensible to human minds and that the universe is fundamentally alien. Not that bad for a few mouse clicks…

Having entered Mr. Richard H. Levey’s copy as well, it turned out that he writes like Dan Brown, the author of  The Da Vinci Code. Brown’s novels feature the recurring themes of cryptography, keys, symbols, codes, and conspiracy theories. Maintenant je comprends tous…

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To test I Write Like I felt free to feed this interesting looking text machine with, ehm well, the following lines everyone who has been to school should recognise:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd.
And now guess what? Who's the author? 
Ah: James Fenimore Cooper – That's leatherstockingly right!