...in which I subject my writing to a very unscientific algorithm for no better reason than to stroke my ego...
So, I know that you all have probably heard about I Write Like, which takes a sample of your writing and, through some sort of witchcraft, outputs a writer with a similar writing style. For example, say you're a terrible writer, it'll probably spit out something like Stephanie Meyer. You get the idea.
So, for the sake of an easy blog post, I'm going to put a few of my posts into the machine and tell you who I write like, good or bad.
For my post, Bored in the Lab, I wrote like: ARTHUR C. (motherfucking) CLARKE
Getting my favorite author on the first try certainly isn't bad. Though it might mean that my work is derivative of his...let's keep going.
For my story, The Missing, I wrote like: Neil Gaiman.
Not too shabby, though I do expect that the algorithm wouldn't tell me if my writing were laughably terrible (which I sometimes suspect it is).
Remember my Corny Star Wars Fanfic? That was written like: Dan Brown.
Dammit. Oh well, since I was deliberately writing that one poorly...nope, no excuses. My bad.
Okay, one more. This one I consider to be the epitome of my writing--this is my masterpiece. My favorite piece of my own writing is, unquestionably, The Gospel According to Thom.
Part 1: Cory Doctorow (Blogger and Scifi writer. Sorry Cory, had to look you up. I'm ashamed.)
Part 2: Dan Brown (again? Shit. Oh well, he gets published, I don't.)
Part 3: Kurt Vonnegut (Well, good.)
So, that's the end of the experiment. I'm not sure that we learned anything, but we had some fun doing it, right? I'm a little bit worried that in one, continuous story I wrote like three very distinct authors. It's either my fault for being inconsistent, or the site's fault for being unscientific. I'll blame the site.
Cheers.
Oh and just in case you were wondering, I put the entirety of this post into the analyzer and got Cory Doctorow as the result.
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Friday, January 7, 2011
Monday, February 16, 2009
The problem with time travel...
...it's never as easy as it seems.
Alright...test, test, 3, 2, 1, go.
I've only got a few minutes before the next, um, event, so I'm going to have to make this quick. You're listening to this, I'm assuming, because you're interested in my work. That's good. In fact, there is soon to be an opening in my field, one which I currently occupy. More on that later.
Everybody says that you have to learn from the past--learn from other's mistakes--and this is especially prevalent in the sciences. So prevalent, in fact, that it becomes rote--you just, stop hearing it after a while. But I'm here, now, to say it one last time, and to give you, the intrepid time-traveler, an account of my mistakes, so that you hopefully won't make them. First off: forget everything you think you know about time travel. It's wrong. You know, all of those times in the vids where the traveling back or forward is as easy as pulling a lever...no, forget about that. Secondly, on to the good stuff: you have to realize early on that a time machine is never simply a "time" machine, it's also got to be a "space" machine. The hacks who try and make their own devices on Earth never seem to realize that, say, you try and go a month into the future--something simple--that when you materialize in the future, the earth is going to be a few thousand kilometers away from when you started. The guys that try and go themselves usually end up as asphyxiated comets. Now, traveling in the other seven dimensions is fairly trivial, but you need to account for motion in the "big four." It's a bit harder to do, but I always put my machine pretty far above the solar plane, and I haven't hit a comet yet.
Finally, because I think I've only got a few seconds left: don't worry about fucking up history. You can't do it. It's fixed. Everything that's ever been done, has been done. Or did you really think that you were the first person to try to kill Hitler? Oh! and one last thin--
Alright...test, test, 3, 2, 1, go.
I've only got a few minutes before the next, um, event, so I'm going to have to make this quick. You're listening to this, I'm assuming, because you're interested in my work. That's good. In fact, there is soon to be an opening in my field, one which I currently occupy. More on that later.
Everybody says that you have to learn from the past--learn from other's mistakes--and this is especially prevalent in the sciences. So prevalent, in fact, that it becomes rote--you just, stop hearing it after a while. But I'm here, now, to say it one last time, and to give you, the intrepid time-traveler, an account of my mistakes, so that you hopefully won't make them. First off: forget everything you think you know about time travel. It's wrong. You know, all of those times in the vids where the traveling back or forward is as easy as pulling a lever...no, forget about that. Secondly, on to the good stuff: you have to realize early on that a time machine is never simply a "time" machine, it's also got to be a "space" machine. The hacks who try and make their own devices on Earth never seem to realize that, say, you try and go a month into the future--something simple--that when you materialize in the future, the earth is going to be a few thousand kilometers away from when you started. The guys that try and go themselves usually end up as asphyxiated comets. Now, traveling in the other seven dimensions is fairly trivial, but you need to account for motion in the "big four." It's a bit harder to do, but I always put my machine pretty far above the solar plane, and I haven't hit a comet yet.
Finally, because I think I've only got a few seconds left: don't worry about fucking up history. You can't do it. It's fixed. Everything that's ever been done, has been done. Or did you really think that you were the first person to try to kill Hitler? Oh! and one last thin--
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Book Review: The Idiot
...by Fyodor Dostoevsky
I've finally finished this, the eighth of Dostoevsky's novels, after an on again, off again relationship which spanned nearly the length of a school year.
I'm busy, okay?
Nevertheless, I'd recently taken it upon myself that, in the space of this winter break from school, I would finally finish the novel. Well, I'm proud to report, as I already have in my opening sentence, that I have finished--and that I have this to say about the book.
The plot goes something like this: our protagonist, Prince Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin arrives by train in Petersburg after spending the entirety of his childhood in a Swiss institute, where he has been cared for and treated for his epilepsy. The definining attribute of the character is his utter innocence, developed from his long absence from "normal" society. He's often described, and accused of, acting very childlike, which, when combined with his epilepsy, earns him the moniker of idiot. The story soon develops as the presence of the Prince is felt throughout the new society in which he finds himself. The most notable storyline is the developing rivalry between Aglaya Epanchin and Natasya Fillipovna, two women vying, strangely, at times, for the Prince's heart. And I'll tell you right now, the ending, is amazing.
The most unique thing I've enjoyed about Dostoevsky's writing is simply the way in which it is presented. His narrator is not a typical omniscient third-person, but rather, the story is told from the point of view of a character, best described as anonymous observer and historian. What I mean to say, is that the book is written mainly in second-person, in that the narrator directly addresses the reader as if telling the story aloud. This perspective gives Dostoevsky a masterful amount of control over the flow of information. At times, the narrator will discuss the entirety of a family's history, or the innermost workings of a character's thoughts; but when needed, the narrator will feign ignorance, shut the door to his own omniscience and build tension between the story and the reader. He also uses this technique in books like The Brothers Karamozov, Crime and Punishment, and Demons, to the same effect.
The second point that I'd like to make is that this book is very much grounded in reality. It doesn't have a mushy, Jane Austenesque, hollywood ending. I like it that way. Inevitably, in every book I read, I'm subconsciously trying to figure out the ending, fitting the plot to the three-act outline, finding the important metaphors and reading into them the deeper meanings being shoved at me by the author. I couldn't do that here. Try as I might, this book refused to go where I thought it would, but for the simple reason that the characters actually make decisions like human beings. The plot moves, not by the narrator, but by the events themselves. Everything about the plot feels very much like the historian narrator is decribing, not telling, the story as it happened. It was very refreshing.
And so ends my long affair with The Idiot. I've had fun, I've spent too long reading it, and I think now it's time for me to read some lighter fare. Time for a literary break.
I've finally finished this, the eighth of Dostoevsky's novels, after an on again, off again relationship which spanned nearly the length of a school year.I'm busy, okay?
Nevertheless, I'd recently taken it upon myself that, in the space of this winter break from school, I would finally finish the novel. Well, I'm proud to report, as I already have in my opening sentence, that I have finished--and that I have this to say about the book.
The plot goes something like this: our protagonist, Prince Lev Nikolaevich Myshkin arrives by train in Petersburg after spending the entirety of his childhood in a Swiss institute, where he has been cared for and treated for his epilepsy. The definining attribute of the character is his utter innocence, developed from his long absence from "normal" society. He's often described, and accused of, acting very childlike, which, when combined with his epilepsy, earns him the moniker of idiot. The story soon develops as the presence of the Prince is felt throughout the new society in which he finds himself. The most notable storyline is the developing rivalry between Aglaya Epanchin and Natasya Fillipovna, two women vying, strangely, at times, for the Prince's heart. And I'll tell you right now, the ending, is amazing.
The most unique thing I've enjoyed about Dostoevsky's writing is simply the way in which it is presented. His narrator is not a typical omniscient third-person, but rather, the story is told from the point of view of a character, best described as anonymous observer and historian. What I mean to say, is that the book is written mainly in second-person, in that the narrator directly addresses the reader as if telling the story aloud. This perspective gives Dostoevsky a masterful amount of control over the flow of information. At times, the narrator will discuss the entirety of a family's history, or the innermost workings of a character's thoughts; but when needed, the narrator will feign ignorance, shut the door to his own omniscience and build tension between the story and the reader. He also uses this technique in books like The Brothers Karamozov, Crime and Punishment, and Demons, to the same effect.
The second point that I'd like to make is that this book is very much grounded in reality. It doesn't have a mushy, Jane Austenesque, hollywood ending. I like it that way. Inevitably, in every book I read, I'm subconsciously trying to figure out the ending, fitting the plot to the three-act outline, finding the important metaphors and reading into them the deeper meanings being shoved at me by the author. I couldn't do that here. Try as I might, this book refused to go where I thought it would, but for the simple reason that the characters actually make decisions like human beings. The plot moves, not by the narrator, but by the events themselves. Everything about the plot feels very much like the historian narrator is decribing, not telling, the story as it happened. It was very refreshing.
And so ends my long affair with The Idiot. I've had fun, I've spent too long reading it, and I think now it's time for me to read some lighter fare. Time for a literary break.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Longest. Sentence. Ever.
...how Marcel Proust instantly became my idol.
The sentence which follows, is possibly the greatest thing I've ever seen in all of literature. There are:
"Those high white curtains which hid from the eyes the bed placed as if in the rear of a sanctuary; the scattering of light silk counterpanes, of quilts with flowers, of embroidered bedspreads, of linen pillowcases, this scattering under which it disappeared in the daytime, as an altar in the month of Mary under festoons and flowers, and which, in the evening, in order to go to bed, I would place cautiously on an armchair where they consented to spend the night; by the bed, the trinity of the glass with blue patterns, the matching sugar bowl, and the decanter (always empty, since the day after my arrival, by order of my aunt who was afraid to see it "spill"), these instruments, as it were, of the cult-almost as sacred as the precious orange blossom liqueur placed near them in a glass phial-,which I would no more have thought of profaning nor even of possibly using for myself than if they had been consecrated ciboria, but which I would examine a long time before undressing, for fear of upsetting them by a false motion; those little crocheted open-work stoles which threw on the backs of the armchair a mantel of white roses that must not have been without thorns since every time I was through reading and wanted to I noticed I remained caught in them; that glass bell on which, isolated from vulgar contacts, the clock was babbling privately for shells come from far away and for an old sentimental flower, but which was so heavy to lift that when the clock stopped, nobody but the clock-maker would have been foolhardy enough to undertake to wind it up; that very white guipure tablecloth which, thrown as an altar runner across the chest of drawers adorned with two vases, a picture of the Savior, and a twig of blessed boxwood made it resemble the Lord's Table (of which a priedieu, placed there every day, when the room war "done," finished evoking the idea), but whose frayings always catching in the chinks of the drawers stopped their movement so completely that I could never take out a handkerchief without at once knocking down the picture of the Savior, the sacred vases, the twig of blessed boxwood, and without stumbling and catching hold of the priedieu; finally, that triple layer of little bolting-cloth curtains, of large muslin curtains, and of larger dimity curtains always smiling in their often sunny hawthorn whiteness, but in reality very irritating in their awkwardness and stubbornness in playing around the parallel wooden bars and tangling in one another and getting all in the window as soon as I wanted to open or close it, -a second one being always ready if I succeeded in extricating the first to come to take its place immediately in the cracks as perfectly plugged by them as they would have been by a real hawthorn bush or by nests of swallows that might have had the fancy to settle there, so that this operation, in appearance so simple, of opening or closing my window, I never succeeded in doing without the help of someone in the house; all those things which not only could not answer any of my needs, but were even an impediment however slight, to their satisfaction, which evidently had never been placed there for someone's use, peopled my room with thoughts somehow personal, with that air of predilection, of having chosen to live there and delighting in it, which, often the trees in a clearing and the flowers on the road side or on old walls have."
Update: Alright, I actually did some research and found that there are much longer sentences out there...up to 40,000 words, apparently.
The sentence which follows, is possibly the greatest thing I've ever seen in all of literature. There are:
- 605 words
- 51 commas
- 7 semi-colons
- 2 parenthetical clauses
- 1 period.
"Those high white curtains which hid from the eyes the bed placed as if in the rear of a sanctuary; the scattering of light silk counterpanes, of quilts with flowers, of embroidered bedspreads, of linen pillowcases, this scattering under which it disappeared in the daytime, as an altar in the month of Mary under festoons and flowers, and which, in the evening, in order to go to bed, I would place cautiously on an armchair where they consented to spend the night; by the bed, the trinity of the glass with blue patterns, the matching sugar bowl, and the decanter (always empty, since the day after my arrival, by order of my aunt who was afraid to see it "spill"), these instruments, as it were, of the cult-almost as sacred as the precious orange blossom liqueur placed near them in a glass phial-,which I would no more have thought of profaning nor even of possibly using for myself than if they had been consecrated ciboria, but which I would examine a long time before undressing, for fear of upsetting them by a false motion; those little crocheted open-work stoles which threw on the backs of the armchair a mantel of white roses that must not have been without thorns since every time I was through reading and wanted to I noticed I remained caught in them; that glass bell on which, isolated from vulgar contacts, the clock was babbling privately for shells come from far away and for an old sentimental flower, but which was so heavy to lift that when the clock stopped, nobody but the clock-maker would have been foolhardy enough to undertake to wind it up; that very white guipure tablecloth which, thrown as an altar runner across the chest of drawers adorned with two vases, a picture of the Savior, and a twig of blessed boxwood made it resemble the Lord's Table (of which a priedieu, placed there every day, when the room war "done," finished evoking the idea), but whose frayings always catching in the chinks of the drawers stopped their movement so completely that I could never take out a handkerchief without at once knocking down the picture of the Savior, the sacred vases, the twig of blessed boxwood, and without stumbling and catching hold of the priedieu; finally, that triple layer of little bolting-cloth curtains, of large muslin curtains, and of larger dimity curtains always smiling in their often sunny hawthorn whiteness, but in reality very irritating in their awkwardness and stubbornness in playing around the parallel wooden bars and tangling in one another and getting all in the window as soon as I wanted to open or close it, -a second one being always ready if I succeeded in extricating the first to come to take its place immediately in the cracks as perfectly plugged by them as they would have been by a real hawthorn bush or by nests of swallows that might have had the fancy to settle there, so that this operation, in appearance so simple, of opening or closing my window, I never succeeded in doing without the help of someone in the house; all those things which not only could not answer any of my needs, but were even an impediment however slight, to their satisfaction, which evidently had never been placed there for someone's use, peopled my room with thoughts somehow personal, with that air of predilection, of having chosen to live there and delighting in it, which, often the trees in a clearing and the flowers on the road side or on old walls have."
Update: Alright, I actually did some research and found that there are much longer sentences out there...up to 40,000 words, apparently.
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