Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the mistakes in this text? I wrote in in one go as an exercise.
Shortly after Ben reached the age of thirty-six, his father went to his room to talk with him. Ben sat at his laptop, polishing his poem for the umpteenth time. (He often spent the whole day writing and rewriting a poem, and still was not satisfied. He read once that perfection was usually a sign of a genius, so he indulged in revising his texts infinitely, feeling he was creating a masterpiece).
The room was dusty and untidy, crowded with books and Ben's rejected novels and poems. His father wanted to scold him for not cleaning the room. but knowing that his son would react with one of his hysterics, thought better of it. Ben stared at him through his thick glasses, angry that he was disturbed in his writing. His lean, sallow face and pallid skin didn't see the sun for days, and combined with his beard, evoked an image of a hostage.
"Mother and I discussed what to do with you," his father said, "and we agreed that something must be done." Ben's eyes widened in anger. He never liked changes and preferred for conditions and things to stay as they were. He even still used the same desk and chair he had used in the elementary school and slept in the same bed for more than 30 years.
His father stopped for a moment, looked at his clasped gnarled hands and said, "We decided that you can't stay here without paying a rent. It's not fair. You're thirty-six, Ben. You'd have your own home years ago." He saw that Ben's lips trembled, and he lifted his hand to calm him. "Please, listen to me. We don't throw you out. We'll give you enough time, but you have to understand us. Imagine how your mother feels when her friends ask her about you. They are laughing at her, Ben. She should be playing with her grandchildren, but instead she listens to questions like 'When is Ben's book finally coming out?' and then hears people scoffing behind her back. You have to find job. You must prove to everyone that you are a mature person and take care of your life."
"But who is going to give me job without any qualifications?" Ben threw up his hands in exasperation.
"Who's giving jobs to all those refugees? Syrians, Iraqis, Afghans, they don't even speak English and still work. This is your homeland, Ben. You can find work today if you want."
As his father closed the door behind him, Ben hit the desk with his fist. He was angry at himself. He couldn't blame his parents. He knew this moment would come one day. He should have been prepared for it. He picked up a phone and called his friend Paul and asked him if he could let him stay in for a couple of days until he found a better solution. Paul explained to him that he would gladly take him in, but his girlfriend was staying with him very often, and it would be rather cramped to have them all three in a one-room flat. But Ben should not despair because Paul has a solution for his problems. He has an uncle who is a farmer and needed labourers, especially now after the UK had left the EU and many east Europeans had returned to their homelands. Ben could probably start tomorrow if he wanted.
"Have you ever been there," Ben asked.
"Oh, many times," Paul replied. "You're going to love it there. It's quiet. No traffic, no pollution, no crowds or noise. You hear birds singing in front your window."
"But what kind of work am I going to do?" asked Ben
"Nothing special, cleaning the pigsty and the cowshed, working in the field, spreading fertilisers and manure, cutting trees, helping with the cheese making, picking vegetables..."
After they finished the conversation, Ben opened a Word document and wrote the title of his poem "The Poet in a Pigsty" and the verses poured out of him.
They stare at me with their large, dark eyes
Wondering who I am
A bespectacled creature with a red beard and a shovel
Am I their fodder, a brother or a clumsy labourer
Shortly after Ben reached the age of thirty-six, his father went to his room to talk with him. Ben sat at his laptop, polishing his poem for the umpteenth time. (He often spent the whole day writing and rewriting a poem, and still was not satisfied. He read once that perfection was usually a sign of a genius, so he indulged in revising his texts infinitely, feeling he was creating a masterpiece).
The room was dusty and untidy, crowded with books and Ben's rejected novels and poems. His father wanted to scold him for not cleaning the room. but knowing that his son would react with one of his hysterics, thought better of it. Ben stared at him through his thick glasses, angry that he was disturbed in his writing. His lean, sallow face and pallid skin didn't see the sun for days, and combined with his beard, evoked an image of a hostage.
"Mother and I discussed what to do with you," his father said, "and we agreed that something must be done." Ben's eyes widened in anger. He never liked changes and preferred for conditions and things to stay as they were. He even still used the same desk and chair he had used in the elementary school and slept in the same bed for more than 30 years.
His father stopped for a moment, looked at his clasped gnarled hands and said, "We decided that you can't stay here without paying a rent. It's not fair. You're thirty-six, Ben. You'd have your own home years ago." He saw that Ben's lips trembled, and he lifted his hand to calm him. "Please, listen to me. We don't throw you out. We'll give you enough time, but you have to understand us. Imagine how your mother feels when her friends ask her about you. They are laughing at her, Ben. She should be playing with her grandchildren, but instead she listens to questions like 'When is Ben's book finally coming out?' and then hears people scoffing behind her back. You have to find job. You must prove to everyone that you are a mature person and take care of your life."
"But who is going to give me job without any qualifications?" Ben threw up his hands in exasperation.
"Who's giving jobs to all those refugees? Syrians, Iraqis, Afghans, they don't even speak English and still work. This is your homeland, Ben. You can find work today if you want."
As his father closed the door behind him, Ben hit the desk with his fist. He was angry at himself. He couldn't blame his parents. He knew this moment would come one day. He should have been prepared for it. He picked up a phone and called his friend Paul and asked him if he could let him stay in for a couple of days until he found a better solution. Paul explained to him that he would gladly take him in, but his girlfriend was staying with him very often, and it would be rather cramped to have them all three in a one-room flat. But Ben should not despair because Paul has a solution for his problems. He has an uncle who is a farmer and needed labourers, especially now after the UK had left the EU and many east Europeans had returned to their homelands. Ben could probably start tomorrow if he wanted.
"Have you ever been there," Ben asked.
"Oh, many times," Paul replied. "You're going to love it there. It's quiet. No traffic, no pollution, no crowds or noise. You hear birds singing in front your window."
"But what kind of work am I going to do?" asked Ben
"Nothing special, cleaning the pigsty and the cowshed, working in the field, spreading fertilisers and manure, cutting trees, helping with the cheese making, picking vegetables..."
After they finished the conversation, Ben opened a Word document and wrote the title of his poem "The Poet in a Pigsty" and the verses poured out of him.
They stare at me with their large, dark eyes
Wondering who I am
A bespectacled creature with a red beard and a shovel
Am I their fodder, a brother or a clumsy labourer
