I put my essay through Claude AI and had it rewrite as some great writers. I don't mean to compare myself with any of these giants, but it was fun reading my life story in their distinctive styles. I'll publish it here for anyone who cares to read.
How would Marcel Proust write this?
Here's your story reimagined in Proust's characteristically introspective, meandering, and sensory-rich style:
In contemplating the nature of gratitude and its delayed expression, I find myself drawn to that peculiar modern ritual of leaving reviews—those digital testimonials that, like the taste of a madeleine dipped in tea, can transport us through the corridors of memory to moments both forgotten and eternally present. It was in this spirit that I turned my thoughts first to the Montessori school, where time had moved with that particular fluidity characteristic of watching a child's development: both languorous in its daily rhythms and startlingly swift in retrospect. Mademoiselle Aberella, whose very name now conjures the gentle authority with which she guided our daughter through those formative hours, had created an atmosphere that seemed to exist outside of ordinary time—at once structured and nurturing, like the invisible forces that guide a flower toward the sun.
And then there was that interlude in Bodrum, where the very air seemed charged with a different quality of light, where the Sea Village Garden (how provincial that name seems now, how inadequate to capture the sublime intersection of luxury and familial intimacy we experienced there) transformed us into creatures of leisure, much like those elegant Russians who once frequented the grand hotels of Balbec. My brother-in-law's generosity, like Swann's introduction to the Verdurins' salon, had ushered us into a sphere of existence we had previously only glimpsed through the windows of others' lives.
The curious democracy of the digital age has seen fit to bestow upon me the title of "Level 6 Guide"—an honor as arbitrary and yet as meaningful as any aristocratic designation—earned through what I can only describe as a peculiar form of literary optimism, a determination to illuminate only the bright passages in the vast novel of commercial encounters.
Yet even in this cultivated garden of positive experiences, there blooms one curious flower: that ill-fated bistro, whose magnificent chandelier hung like a promise of splendor that the reality beneath could not sustain. How strange that memory preserves most precisely those moments when the facade of civility cracks, when the glittering surface reveals the decay beneath, like the first glimpse of mold on a forgotten piece of fruit. My three-star review—that modest protest against disappointment—has now vanished into the digital ether, like so many lost hours of our youth.
The transformative power of others' words—those three reviews that lifted me from the sterile confines of my IT desk to the vibrant world of athletic instruction—reminds me of how Bergotte's criticism could elevate an unknown painter to the heights of fashion. Now, at forty-four, I find myself, like the aging Swann, contemplating the finite nature of physical prowess while surrounded by the eternal spring of younger bodies on the tennis courts. The pickleball court has become my own personal Combray, a refuge where time moves according to its own laws, even as my body reminds me of its inexorable march forward.
And so I turn, like all of us must, toward that mystifying modern alchemy of social media and artificial intelligence, seeking what my contemporaries have already discovered: a way to transmute physical effort into that most ethereal of modern commodities—passive income. Like the aristocrats of old who lived off their estates while sleeping in their Paris apartments, I too dream of prosperity that flowers even in my absence.
In this pursuit, I place my faith in this class, much as the young Marcel once believed that the magic lantern's images on his bedroom wall could transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. Perhaps here, in this intersection of technology and human experience, I shall find that elusive formula for turning time itself into gold.
Would you like me to adjust any aspects of this Proustian interpretation?
That's too much, no real human would ever read that. It is beautiful though. Let's try William Faulkner'style
Here's your story in Faulkner's distinctive Southern Gothic style, with its stream of consciousness, multiple perspectives, and non-linear time:
The reviews stayed unwritten long past their time, like dead leaves clinging to winter branches, until the assignment came and there wasn't any choice but to reach back into that well of memory and pull them up dripping with the weight of time passed: the Montessori school where my girl-child learned her ways in Ms. Aberella's classroom (my daughter my daughter my daughter who walked in small and came out knowing things that weren't just letters and numbers but life itself) and that Turkey place where we played at being rich folk for a spell, my brother-in-law's money making us all fancy for a time at that Sea Village Garden where even the help treated us like we were somebody.
Google done told me I'm some kind of Level 6 whatever-they-call-it now on account of them reviews I been writing, all of them good ones because that's what I know to write, just the truth of good times spent and money well used, stars scattered like bright pennies across the internet, four and five at a time until they pile up like autumn leaves.
Except that one time. That one time with that bistro (dead now dead and gone with another shop in its place serving coffee to folk who don't remember what was there before) with its chandelier hanging down like judgment, catching light and throwing it back at us while the kitchen behind (Lord the kitchen) showed its dirty truth and my friend came running from the bathroom with warnings in his eyes. We got out quiet-like, me keeping peace like always, watching another table rise up and follow us out into the night. Three stars I gave them. Three stars and they died anyway, though not by my hand, no sir, not by my hand.
Time flows backward and forward like muddy creek water after rain, showing me sitting at that IT desk (eight years wasted except for what came after) when the money got tight and the hours got short and I had to make a choice. Three reviews saved me then: my one client's daddy and them tennis fellows writing words about how good I was with children, words that grew into a business that grew into a life.
Now here I stand, forty-four years done gone by, running these old bones across courts and hearing new words like pickleball that pay better than tennis ever did, but my knees (my knees my knees) they know what's coming. That massage gun giving out wasn't no accident but a sign, like them buzzards circling before the storm.
I see them other folks, clients and friends alike, with their money working while they sleep, and I know that's what I need: something that doesn't need these legs these knees this body that keeps on telling me it won't last forever. Maybe this class, with its talk of social media and artificial brains, maybe this is where I'll find it, if I can just figure out how to make tomorrow come before yesterday catches up with me.
I liked reading that. How would Ernest Hemingway approach this?
Here's your story in Hemingway's characteristically terse, direct style with short, declarative sentences:
I had to write the reviews. They were overdue. The first was for the Montessori school. It was a good school. Ms. Aberella ran it well. She was kind but serious. Our daughter learned things there. Real things.
Then there was the resort in Turkey. My brother-in-law paid. It was the kind of place we could not afford. The staff treated us well. Too well. Like royalty. I thanked my brother-in-law separately.
Google made me a Level 6 Guide. It meant nothing really. Just that people liked my reviews. I only wrote good ones. Four stars. Five stars. That was all.
Except for the bistro. The bistro was bad. It had a good chandelier. That was all. The kitchen was dirty. The bathrooms were worse. We tried to leave quietly. They got angry. We left anyway. Another table left too. I gave them three stars. That was generous. They closed later. It was not my fault. A coffee shop is there now. They do well.
Reviews matter. When owners respond, people come back. I know this. Reviews changed my life once. It was during the financial crisis. I worked IT at a big firm. They cut my hours badly. I had to change. I asked for help. Three people wrote Yelp reviews. My client's father wrote one. Two tennis friends wrote the others. They said I was good with children. It was true. A year later I had enough clients. I quit IT. I had worked there eight years. When things got bad, they cut me loose. The new career was better. It still is.
Now I am forty-four. I still play tennis. I run hard. I hit hard. Pickleball pays better. It is easier on the body. My massage gun broke. My knees will break too. Someday.
I need money that works while I sleep. My clients have this. The people I know have this. They tell me to do it too. They are right.
I will need help. Social media. AI. This class. That is the truth.
It was a simple story. But it was my story. And it was good.
You're good Claude! Lets retell in the style of my favorite: Salman Rushdie.
Here's your story reimagined with Rushdie's magical realism, playful language, and interweaving of the personal with the mythological:
In the great digital bazaar of opinions, where stars rain down like cosmic confetti and words transform into weapons or wings, your humble narrator (that's me, yes-yes-yes) found himself tasked with the peculiar modern ritual of Review-Writing, that most curious offspring of the marriage between Commerce and Memory. What else to do but dive into the chutney-thick mix of past-present-future?
First came the tale of Southern California Montessori, where Ms. Aberella (blessed be her name!) ruled her kingdom of small citizens with that rarest of combinations: love-wrapped-in-discipline. Our daughter, like so many before her, underwent the ancient-modern metamorphosis from caterpillar-child to butterfly-student, while I, the ever-procrastinating father, held my gratitude like an unspent coin until this assignment-gods demanded their due.
And what of the Sea Village Garden of Bodrum? Ah! That Turkish delight of a resort where my brother-in-law (may his wallet forever be blessed) played Fairy Godfather to our Cinderella family, transforming us from humble middle-class mice into guests-who-must-be-pampered-at-all-costs. The magic lasted longer than midnight, I tell you!
But wait-wait-wait, what's this? Google, that great Algorithm-in-the-Sky, has crowned me Level 6 Guide! A title as weighty as any bestowed by the ancient emperors, earned through the simple art of telling truths about good experiences, scattering 4- and 5-star blessings like a benevolent deity of commerce.
Yet every story needs its shadow, and mine arrived in the shape of a bistro (now deceased, but let's not speak ill of the dead). A chandelier worthy of Versailles hung above a kitchen that would make even the most forgiving health inspector weep, while the restrooms... but no, some horrors are better left undescribed. Three stars I gave them - my only venture into the territory of mediocrity - and like a curse from an offended djinn, the business vanished into the mists of bankruptcy, replaced by coffee-sellers who understood better the modern rituals of cleanliness and customer service.
In my previous incarnation (for don't we all have many lives?), I sat chained to an IT desk in the Silicon Valley of Sorrows, until the Great Financial Crisis came howling like a demon-wind. But three magical reviews - ah! those three reviews! - written by my client's father and two tennis-playing companions, transformed me like a spell cast in pixels and praise. "Good with children," they wrote, and lo! A new career sprouted from the ashes of the old.
Now, at forty-four orbits around the sun, I chase little balls across courts with the energy of a much younger man, while pickleball (that upstart sport!) fills my pockets better than its aristocratic cousin tennis ever did. But the massage gun's death speaks prophecies about knees, and one must listen when the body whispers its mortal truths.
And so, like all heroes on their quests, I seek the Holy Grail of our times: passive income! That magical fountain that flows even while one sleeps, that philosopher's stone that transforms time into money. With social media as my flying carpet and AI as my wise old sage, I place my hopes in this class, this modern madrasa of digital wisdom.
For isn't that what we all seek in the end? A story that continues telling itself, even after we've left the room?
(Would you like me to adjust any aspects of this Rushdie-esque retelling? Perhaps add more wordplay or cultural references?)
That was also a great read. I like his style. Can you reimagine With Jorge Luis Borches' style of writing?
Here's your story reimagined in Borges' metaphysical, labyrinthine style with his characteristic themes of infinity, mirrors, and libraries:
On Reviews and the Infinite
In that vast digital library we call the Internet, where each review is both a mirror and a labyrinth, I discovered myself assigned the task of adding to its endless catalogue. Consider the peculiar nature of these testimonials: each one a fragment of time preserved, each rating a number that pretends to quantify the unquantifiable.
The first review concerned a Montessori school where, in one of time's countless paradoxes, my daughter both did and did not remain forever young. A certain Ms. Aberella (whose name I now suspect might be an iteration of all possible teacher names) presided over this universe of ordered chaos, where children learned the infinite in finite steps.
Then there was the resort in Bodrum—a place that, like Asterion's house, contained all possible luxuries. My brother-in-law (who, in the circular nature of gratitude, received his own review in the form of a thank-you note) had granted us access to this parallel reality where we existed as royalty. The Sea Village Garden: perhaps in some other universe, all gardens are by the sea, and all villages are gardens.
Google bestowed upon me the title of Level 6 Guide—a designation that, like the Library of Babel, contains within it all possible ratings. I had achieved this through a curious method: by documenting only positive experiences, as if constructing a map that deliberately omits the territories of discontent.
Yet in this catalogue of contentment there existed one anomaly: a bistro (now vanished, though in the eternal return of all things, replaced by a coffee shop) whose magnificent chandelier served as a metaphor for appearances versus reality. Like the Aleph in my basement, from my vantage point I could observe all the kitchen's failings simultaneously. The three stars I assigned it exist now only in memory, that most unreliable of archives.
In my former life—for we die many deaths—I inhabited the labyrinth of information technology, until the financial crisis (that cyclical beast) forced a transformation. Three reviews, like the three Fates, rewove my destiny. Their authors—a client's father and two tennis companions—unknowingly participated in an act of creation, their words "Good with children" serving as an incantation that opened a portal to a new existence.
Now, at forty-four (a number whose significance in other numerical systems I dare not contemplate), I traverse courts whose geometric patterns suggest the infinite. Pickleball, that modern variation of ancient ball games, proves more lucrative than its predecessor. The death of a massage gun portends the future of knees—in the garden of forking paths, all bodies eventually betray their owners.
I seek now what all seekers ultimately pursue: a system of wealth that replicates itself, like those infinite mirrors that reflect each other eternally. My contemporaries possess this knowledge, this philosopher's stone of passive income. Perhaps in this class, through the arcane arts of social media and artificial intelligence, I too shall uncover the formula.
In the end, we are all reviews of ourselves, incomplete testimonials of what we have been and what we might become. In some infinite library, all possible versions of this story already exist, including this one you now read.
[Note: Would you like me to adjust any aspects of this Borgesian interpretation? Perhaps add more references to his specific works or philosophical concepts?]
