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 short text?
Ivan was seventeen when he went to Warsaw to participate in the Chopin Competition. As a child, he was recognised as an exceptional talent, and many experts had promised him a brilliant career. With his long hair, boyish looks and his way of dressing, he was distinguished from other participants. Instead of a compulsory dark suit, Ivan wore a folksy shirt with a thin ribbon tie and tight trousers. When he started playing, you could hear that this was a different version of Chopin, modern and non-conformist. The audience gasped. None expected this interpretation of their beloved composer. As his nimble fingers moved over the keys, tears brimmed over his eyes, and not only his but also the majority of the listeners, who were overcome with emotion. If Chopin had been in the audience, maybe he would be crying too.
But Ivan didn't win. He didn't even made to the finals. The audience protested, people believed he was robbed and that politics was involved in the decision. It didn't make the difference that one member of the jury resigned in protest. The decision was impossible to overrule.
Ivan returned home and went on practising his piano for hours every day, as he had done since his childhood. But people wanted to see him playing, and soon invitations flooded from the whole world. His handsome face was on the posters in New York, Paris, London, Sydney and other cities. His concerts were sold out within minutes, TV stations had him playing in their studios, journalists queued to make an interview with the shy and soft-spoken young musician. He was on the title pages of leading magazines.
His extraordinary success was like a dream. It must have exceeded his wildest expectations, but masses wanted to see a rebel. to be moved by his music, and to experience something extraordinary.
Sometimes, I imagine him lying in the bed in a five-star hotel after his performance. A distance hum of traffic is hardly audible, neon lights seep through the slats of the blinds. Bouquets of flowers lie on the table beside a champagne in the bucket. Ivo is staring at the high ceiling in darkness, and the scene from that Warsaw evening many decades ago appears in front of his eyes. He hears Chopin's Piano Sonata, and his heart pulsates in the rhythm with that ethereal music that makes him cry.
Ivan was seventeen when he went to Warsaw to participate in the Chopin Competition. As a child, he was recognised as an exceptional talent, and many experts had promised him a brilliant career. With his long hair, boyish looks and his way of dressing, he was distinguished from other participants. Instead of a compulsory dark suit, Ivan wore a folksy shirt with a thin ribbon tie and tight trousers. When he started playing, you could hear that this was a different version of Chopin, modern and non-conformist. The audience gasped. None expected this interpretation of their beloved composer. As his nimble fingers moved over the keys, tears brimmed over his eyes, and not only his but also the majority of the listeners, who were overcome with emotion. If Chopin had been in the audience, maybe he would be crying too.
But Ivan didn't win. He didn't even made to the finals. The audience protested, people believed he was robbed and that politics was involved in the decision. It didn't make the difference that one member of the jury resigned in protest. The decision was impossible to overrule.
Ivan returned home and went on practising his piano for hours every day, as he had done since his childhood. But people wanted to see him playing, and soon invitations flooded from the whole world. His handsome face was on the posters in New York, Paris, London, Sydney and other cities. His concerts were sold out within minutes, TV stations had him playing in their studios, journalists queued to make an interview with the shy and soft-spoken young musician. He was on the title pages of leading magazines.
His extraordinary success was like a dream. It must have exceeded his wildest expectations, but masses wanted to see a rebel. to be moved by his music, and to experience something extraordinary.
Sometimes, I imagine him lying in the bed in a five-star hotel after his performance. A distance hum of traffic is hardly audible, neon lights seep through the slats of the blinds. Bouquets of flowers lie on the table beside a champagne in the bucket. Ivo is staring at the high ceiling in darkness, and the scene from that Warsaw evening many decades ago appears in front of his eyes. He hears Chopin's Piano Sonata, and his heart pulsates in the rhythm with that ethereal music that makes him cry.
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