Like a Fashionista, game "Correct your Mistakes"
Hey dear Fashionistas !
Here are the solutions of the differents texts. As you can see, it isn't completed at all, but I will modified this article, little by little. I hope my english isn't so awful !
There is no mistakes anymore : I finally could correct them !
"Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud , which screens their obscure operations from your sight. But above the gray land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic — their irises are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose."
Well, there's no problem with this text, he is correct at 100% ! It is a pleasure to read this text... I like the way it's sounds !
Men all, and birds, and creeping beasts, when the dark of night is deep, from the moving wonder of their lives commit themselves to sleep. Without a thought, or fear, they shut the narrow gates of sense; heedless and quiet, in slumber turn their strength to impotence. The transient strangeness of the earth their spirits no more see: within a silent gloom withdrawn, they slumber in secrecy. Two worlds they have - a globe forgot wheeling from dark to light; and all the enchanted realm of dream that burgeons out of night. —Sleep, Walter De La Mare
The third text, totaly corrected. An extract of a french author ! :3
It was, perhaps, rather early in the morning to get up a concert, and the audience prematurely aroused from their slumbers, might not possibly pay their entertainer with coin bearing the Mikado's features. Passepartout therefore decided to wait several hours; and, as he was sauntering along, it occurred to him that he would seem rather too well dressed for a wandering artist. The idea struck him to change his garments for clothes more in harmony with his project; by which he might also get a little money to satisfy the immediate cravings of hunger. —Around the World in Eighty Days, Verne, Jules
An other text without mistakes !
At eight o'clock in the inner vestibule of the Auditorium Theatre by the window of the box office, Laura Dearborn, her younger sister Page, and their aunt—Aunt Wess'—were still waiting for the rest of the theatre-party to appear. A great, slow-moving press of men and women in evening dress filled the vestibule from one wall to another. A confused murmur of talk and the shuffling of many feet arose on all sides, while from time to time, when the outside and inside doors of the entrance chanced to be open simultaneously, a sudden draught of air gushed in, damp, glacial, and edged with the penetrating keenness of a Chicago evening at the end of February. —The Pit: A Story of Chicago, Frank Norris
But look! Here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange ! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand — miles of them — leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues,— north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither? —Moby-Dick, Herman Melville
Aboard, at a ship's helm, A young steersman, steering with care. A bell through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing, An ocean-bell--O a warning bell, rock'd by the waves. O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing, Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place. For, as on the alert, O steersman, you mind the bell's admonition, The bows turn,--the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away under her gray sails, The beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds away gaily and safe. But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship! O ship of the body--ship of the soul--voyaging, voyaging, voyaging. —Aboard At A Ship's Helm, Walt Whitman
An other french poet ! :3
"Sweetheart, let’s see if the rose that this morning had open her crimson dress to the Sun, this evening hasn’t lost the folds of her crimson dress, and her complexion similar to yours. Ah! See how in such short space my sweetheart, she has on this very spot all her beauties lost! O, so un-motherly Nature, since such a beautiful flower only last from dawn to dusk! So if you believe me, my sweetheart, while time still flowers for you, in its freshest novelty,do take advantage of your youthful bloom: as it did to this flower, the doom of age will blight your beauty. —The Rose, Pierre de Ronsard"
She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses," cried the young Student ; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."
From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched."
— The Nightingale and the Rose, Oscar Wilde
The translation of a poem by Charles Baudelaire, a french poet that I love !
Both ardent lovers and austere scholars love in their mature years the strong and gentle cats, pride of the house, who like them are sedentary and sensitive to cold. Friends of learning and sensual pleasure, they seek the silence and the horror of darkness; Erebus would have used them as his gloomy steeds: If their pride could let them stoop to bondage. When they dream, they assume the noble attitudes of the mighty sphinxes stretched out in solitude, who seem to fall into a sleep of endless dreams; their fertile loins are full of magic sparks, and particles of gold, like fine grains of sand, spangle dimly their mystic eyes. —The Cats, Charles Baudelaire (William Aggeler)
