Tonight The Daily Beast re-printed

Tonight The Daily Beast re-printed an essay George W. Bush wrote ten years ago for P.O.V. magazine to commemorate his father's birthday titled, "The First Son." Just for kicks, we ran it through some of those online writing analyzers.

Since one of the tests had length restrictions, we took only the first four paragraphs of Bush's essay and plugged them into two online writing analysis tests, Writing Tester and Blue Centauri. Here's the exact writing sample:

I've lived with being "George Bush's son" all my life. Growing up, I probably didn't want to be like him. Today it's ironic that much of my career parallels his. He went to Yale. I went to Yale. He was a Navy pilot. I flew F-102s in the Texas Air National Guard. Now that I'm in political life, I like to say I've inherited half of his friends all of his enemies. Of course, there will be some who will prejudge me, but that's OK: I don't expect to get all of the votes anyway. Being George Bush's son is a tremendous plus.

The greatest gift that my dad has given me has been unconditional love. He loves me when times are good and he loves me when times are bad. He loves me when I've been successful and he loves me when I've failed. Take the 1994 campaign for governor, which no one thought I could win. I fought an uphill battle, but I had such a sense of security due to love that I was willing to take the risk. Because I feared neither failure nor success.

That love and confidence has always been there. (Even though, as the first of five kids, I tested my parents' patience more than once.) Growing up in Midland, Texas, I can remember clearly my dad saying, "Son, I can play catch with you now and throw the ball as hard as I can and you can catch it." There was a certain rite of passage when I could catch with my dad and he didn't have to hold back.

Dad loves the outdoors. He often took me fishing when I was a kid. We'd go fishing for bluefish off the coast of Maine. I learned the skills of fishing from listening to him, and the joy of fishing from watching him. Dad's a good hunter, too, and one Christmas he gave me a shotgun, a .410. I would go with him to Louisiana to shoot ducks. Those are fond memories.
So Writing Tester graded the above writing sample at a 4th grade level, while Blue Centauri graded it at a 3.5 grade level. Not quite a fourth grader, but more advanced than a third.

Now to be fair, we put an excerpt from Joan Didion's essay, "Why I Write," though the same tests to compare. Here is the exact excerpt:

I had trouble graduating from Berkeley, not because of this inability to deal with ideas—I was majoring in English, and I could locate the house-and-garden imagery in "The Portrait of a Lady" as well as the next person, "imagery" being by definition the kind of specific that got my attention—but simply because I had neglected to take a course in Milton. For reasons which now sound baroque I needed a degree by the end of that summer, and the English department finally agreed, if I would come down from Sacramento every Friday and talk about the cosmology of "Paradise Lost," to certify me proficient in Milton. I did this. Some Fridays I took the Greyhound bus, other Fridays I caught the Southern Pacific's City of San Francisco on the last leg of its transcontinental trip. I can no longer tell you whether Milton put the sun or the earth at the center of his universe in "Paradise Lost," the central question of at least one century and a topic about which I wrote 10,000 words that summer, but I can still recall the exact rancidity of the butter in the City of San Francisco's dining car, and the way the tinted windows on the Greyhound bus cast the oil refineries around Carquinez Straits into a grayed and obscurely sinister light. In short my attention was always on the periphery, on what I could see and taste and touch, on the butter, and the Greyhound bus. During those years I was traveling on what I knew to be a very shaky passport, forged papers: I knew that I was no legitimate resident in any world of ideas. I knew I couldn't think. All I knew then was what I couldn't do. All I knew was what I wasn't, and it took me some years to discover what I was.

Which was a writer.

By which I mean not a "good" writer or a "bad" writer but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on pieces of paper. Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. Why did the oil refineries around Carquinez Straits seem sinister to me in the summer of 1956? Why have the night lights in the bevatron burned in my mind for twenty years? What is going on in these pictures in my mind?
Writing Tester graded Didion's writing at an 8th grade level, while Blue Centauri graded it at a 9.3 grade level.

I guess all of this only serves to prove that George W. Bush is no Joan Didion, but then again, we all probably knew that already, didn't we?

And oh yeah, Happy Birthday to George H. W. Bush! Your humble editor had no idea he was a fellow Gemini!

Happy Birthday, Dad [Daily Beast]

Kết quả (Anh) 1:

Tonight The Daily Beast re-printed an essay George w. Bush wrote ten years ago for P.O.V. magazine to commemorate his father's birthday, titled "The First Son." Just for kicks, we ran it through some of those online writing sensory analyzers.Since one of the tests had length restrictions, we took only the first four paragraphs of Bush's essay and plugged them into two online writing analysis tests, Writing Tester and Blue Centauri. Here's the exact writing sample:I've lived with being "George Bush's son" all my life. Growing up, I probably didn't want to be like him. Today it's ironic that much of my career parallels his. He went to Yale. I went to Yale. He was a Navy pilot. I flew F-102s in the Texas Air National Guard. Now that I'm in political life, I like to say I've inherited half of his friends all of his enemies. Of course, there will be some who will prejudge me, but that's OK: I don't expect to get all of the votes anyway. Being George Bush's son is a tremendous plus.The greatest gift that my dad has given me has been unconditional love. He loves me when times are good and he loves me when times are bad. He loves me when I've been successful and he loves me when I've failed. Take the 1994 campaign for governor, which no one thought I could win. I fought an uphill battle, but I had such a sense of security due to love that I was willing to take the risk. Because I feared neither failure nor success.That love and confidence has always been there. (Even though, as the first of five kids, I tested my parents ' patience more than once.) Growing up in Midland, Texas, I can clearly remember my dad saying, "Son, I can play catch with you now and throw the ball as hard as I can and you can catch it." There was a certain rite of passage when I could catch with my dad and he didn't have to hold back.Dad loves the outdoors. He often took me fishing when I was a kid. We'd go fishing for bluefish off the coast of Maine. I learned the skills of fishing from listening to him, and the joy of fishing from watching him. Dad's a good hunter, too, and one Christmas he gave me a shotgun, a. 410. I would go with him to Louisiana to shoot ducks. Those are fond memories.So Writing the above graded writing sample Tester at a 4th grade level, while Blue Centauri graded it at a 3.5 grade level. Not quite a fourth grader, but more advanced than a third.Now to be fair, we put an excerpt from Joan Didion's essay, "Why I Write", though the same tests to compare. Here is the exact excerpt:I had trouble graduating from Berkeley, not because of this inability to deal with ideas — I was majoring in English, and I could locate the house-and-garden imagery in "The Portrait of a Lady" as well as the next person, "imagery" being by definition the kind of specific that got my attention — but simply because I had neglected to take a course in Milton. For reasons which now sound baroque I needed a degree by the end of that summer, and the English department finally agreed, if I would come down from Sacramento every Friday and talk about the cosmology of "Paradise Lost," to certify me proficient in Milton. I did this. Some Fridays I took the Greyhound bus, the other Fridays I caught the Southern Pacific City of San Francisco on the last leg of its transcontinental trip. I can no longer tell you whether Milton put the sun or the earth at the center of his universe in "Paradise Lost," the central question of at least one century and a topic about which I wrote 10.000 words that summer, but I can still recall the exact rancidity of butter in the City of San Francisco's dining car , and the way the tinted windows on the Greyhound bus to cast the oil refineries around the Carquinez Straits into a grayed and obscurely sinister light. In short my attention was always on the periphery, on what I could see and taste and touch, on the butter, and the Greyhound bus. During those years I was traveling on what I knew to be a very shaky passport, forged papers: I knew that I was no legitimate resident in any world of ideas. I knew I couldn't think. All I knew then was what I couldn't do. All I knew was what I wasn't, and it took me some years to discover what I was.Which was a writer.By which I mean not a "good writer" or a "bad" writer but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on pieces of paper. Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. Why did the oil refineries around the Carquinez Straits seem sinister to me in the summer of 1956? Why have the night lights in the bevatron burned in my mind for twenty years? What is going on in these pictures in my mind?Writing Didion's writing the graded at an Tester 8th grade level, while Blue Centauri graded it at a 9.3 grade level.I guess all of this only serves to prove that George w. Bush is no Joan Didion, but then again, we all probably knew that already, didn't we?And oh yeah, Happy Birthday to George h. w. Bush! Your humble editor had no idea he was a fellow Gemini!Happy Birthday, Dad [Daily Beast]

Kết quả (Anh) 2:

Tonight The Daily Beast re-printed an essay George W. Bush wrote ten years ago to commemorate his magazine for POV father's birthday Titled, "The First Son." Just for kicks, We ran it through some of những online writing analyzers. Since one of the tests hda length restrictions, We took only the first four paragraphs of Bush's essay and plugged added Into two online writing analysis tests, Writing Tester and Blue Centauri. Here's the exact writing sample: I've lived with being "George Bush's son" all my life. Growing up, I did not want to be lẽ like him. Today it's ironic mà much of my career parallels his. He Went to Yale. I Went to Yale. He was a Navy pilot. I flew F-102S in the Texas Air National Guard. Now that I'm in Political Life, I like to say I've inherited half of his friends all of his enemies. Of course, there will be some who will prejudge me, but that's OK: I do not expect to get all of the votes anyway. Being George Bush's son is a plus asterisks allow for tremendous. The greatest gift my dad has given me mà Đã unconditional love. He loves me when times are good and he loves me when times are bad. He loves me when I 've been successful and he loves me when I've failed. Take the 1994 campaign for governor, no one thought I could mà win. I fought an uphill battle, but I Had Such a sense of security vì That I was willing to love to take the risk. Because I feared Neither success nor failure. That love and confidence has always been there. (Even though, as the first of five kids, I Tested my parents' patience once more coal.) Growing up in Midland, Texas, I can remember my dad Clearly Saying, "Son, I can play catch with you now and throw the ball as hard as I can and you can catch it. " There was a rite of passage Certain khi I could catch with my dad and he did not have to hold back. Dad loves the outdoors. He took me fishing often Do When I was a kid. We'd go fishing for bluefish off the coast of Maine. I Learned the skills of fishing from listening to him, and the joy of fishing from watching him. Dad's a good hunter, too, and one Christmas he Gave me a shotgun, a .410. I would go with him to Louisiana to shoot ducks. Those are fond memories. So the above Writing graded writing sample Tester at a 4th grade level, while Blue Centauri graded it at a 3.5 grade level. Not quite a fourth Grader, but more advanced than a third. Now to be fair, an excerpt from We Put Joan Didion's essay, "Why I Write," though the same tests to compare. Here is the exact excerpt: I Had trouble graduating from Berkeley, not this inability to deal vì with ideas-I was majoring in English, and I could locate the house-and-garden imagery in "The Portrait of a Lady" as well as the next person, "imagery" being by definition the specific kind of got my mà Attention-but simply neglected to take vì I Had Milton print a course. For lý mà now I needed a degree baroque sound by the end of mà summer, and the English department Agreed finally, if I would come down from Sacramento every Friday and talk about the cosmology of "Paradise Lost," to certify me proficient print Milton . I did this. Some took the Greyhound bus I Fridays, other Fridays I caught the Southern Pacific's City of San Francisco on the last leg of its trip Transcontinental. I can no longer tell you nếu Milton put the sun or the earth at the center of his universe in "Paradise Lost," the central question of at Least one century and a topic I wrote about 10,000 words mà mà summer, but I can still recall the exact rancidity of the butter in the City of San Francisco's dining car, and the way the tinted windows on the Greyhound bus the oil refineries around Carquinez cast Straits Into a grayed and obscurely sinister light. In my short was always on the periphery Attention, on what I could see and taste and touch, on the butter, and the Greyhound bus. During years I was traveling những on what I Knew to be a very shaky passport, Forged papers: I Knew That I was no legitimate resident in any world of ideas. I Knew I could not think. All I Knew then was what I could not do. All I Knew was what I was not, and it took me some years to discover what I was. Which was a writer. By mà I mean not a "good" writer or a "bad" writer but simply a writer, a person Absorbed nhất có hours are spent and passionate words on pieces of paper arranging. Had my credentials I would never order prints được have Become a writer. Had I Been Blessed with limited access to my own thậm mind there would no reason to write past tense. I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. Why did the oil refineries around Carquinez Straits the seem sinister to me in the summer of 1956? Why have the night lights in the Bevatron Burned in my mind for twenty years? What is going on in my mind In These pictures? Writing Didion's writing Tester graded at an 8th grade level, while Blue Centauri graded it at a 9.3 grade level. I guess all of this only serves to Prove That Bush is no Joan Didion, but then again, all lẽ chúng đã Knew, Did not We? And oh yeah, Happy Birthday to George HW Bush! Your humble editor Had no idea he was a fellow Gemini! Happy Birthday, Dad [Daily Beast]