conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about German, Nazis, British with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Action & Adventure?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'No Dawn for Men'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first three paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No Dawn for Men
  Himmler shook his head. He rarely showed emotion, which to him would be a sign not of weakness but of sloppiness, which he detested. That was why he wore one of his many severely-cut, buttoned-to-the-top SS uniforms at all times, and why he shaved and trimmed his Hitler-mimicking mustache every day, sometimes twice per day. It was obvious now, though, that he was not happy. "We brought her here," he said. "To the basement. She could not perform."
  Himmler's face softened. He liked to keep Heydrich guessing and often played him off against Wolff and others. This tactic he had learned, and honed, by studying the top god in the Nordic pantheon, Adolph Hitler. He had heard that the Fuhrer did not think much of his efforts to aid the upcoming war effort. A body blow, this. Hitler had never spoken of a successor, but to bring him a weapon of such immense power would surely place him next in line. Professor Shroeder must be made to produce results, and very soon.
  They had hiked through the fields behind the abbey and into the great forest, snow-covered and deadly silent this gray mid-winter Saturday, giving the canyon and its towering ancient oak a wide berth so as not to alert the young Benedictine monk with the pock-marked face and the glowing eyes of a martyr, or a lunatic.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: No Dawn for Men
  Himmler shook his head. He rarely showed emotion, which to him would be a sign not of weakness but of sloppiness, which he detested. That was why he wore one of his many severely-cut, buttoned-to-the-top SS uniforms at all times, and why he shaved and trimmed his Hitler-mimicking mustache every day, sometimes twice per day. It was obvious now, though, that he was not happy. "We brought her here," he said. "To the basement. She could not perform."
  Himmler's face softened. He liked to keep Heydrich guessing and often played him off against Wolff and others. This tactic he had learned, and honed, by studying the top god in the Nordic pantheon, Adolph Hitler. He had heard that the Fuhrer did not think much of his efforts to aid the upcoming war effort. A body blow, this. Hitler had never spoken of a successor, but to bring him a weapon of such immense power would surely place him next in line. Professor Shroeder must be made to produce results, and very soon.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: As he watched the moon and rehearsed the day's events, the English professor retrieved the last hunk of the dark brown bread—dwarf bread he had come to call it—that Dagna had given him, and began nibbling at it, marveling once again at its rough texture and oddly pleasing sweet and salty taste. As he ate, he noticed one of the sailing brothers looking at him. Without thinking he broke off a piece of the bread and offered it to the boy, who took it and swallowed it in one gulp and then smiled, a first.
  Still smiling, the boy reached inside his shirt and handed something wrapped in bright red cloth to the Englishman, who took it and asked, "What is it?"
  Tolkien leaned back and watched as the boys quickly stepped a mast that had been lying under a canvas cover in the center of the raft and let out a strange octagonal-shaped sail, also red. Talagan took the sheet while Narunir went aft and, stepping over the still sleeping Vaclav/King Number One, inserted a wooden rudder into a slot in the transom. Suddenly, with Narunir sitting on the raft's low transom, steering, and Talagan handling the sail, they were veering toward the middle of the river and making more headway than Tolkien, a landlubber, would have thought possible.
  The cold breeze on his face and the swift movement of the raft were the last things the professor remembered before falling quietly and deeply asleep.
  Bauer did not reply. Using a red pencil, he was circling the area on the map where the professors might cross into Czechoslovakia, trying to estimate the distance from Metten Abbey. He was distracted by a knocking on the kitchen's oaken door, blackened on his side by the smoke of a thousand years of fires in the massive fireplace behind him.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: As he watched the moon and rehearsed the day's events, the English professor retrieved the last hunk of the dark brown bread—dwarf bread he had come to call it—that Dagna had given him, and began nibbling at it, marveling once again at its rough texture and oddly pleasing sweet and salty taste. As he ate, he noticed one of the sailing brothers looking at him. Without thinking he broke off a piece of the bread and offered it to the boy, who took it and swallowed it in one gulp and then smiled, a first.
  Still smiling, the boy reached inside his shirt and handed something wrapped in bright red cloth to the Englishman, who took it and asked, "What is it?"
  Tolkien leaned back and watched as the boys quickly stepped a mast that had been lying under a canvas cover in the center of the raft and let out a strange octagonal-shaped sail, also red. Talagan took the sheet while Narunir went aft and, stepping over the still sleeping Vaclav/King Number One, inserted a wooden rudder into a slot in the transom. Suddenly, with Narunir sitting on the raft's low transom, steering, and Talagan handling the sail, they were veering toward the middle of the river and making more headway than Tolkien, a landlubber, would have thought possible.
  The cold breeze on his face and the swift movement of the raft were the last things the professor remembered before falling quietly and deeply asleep.
  Bauer did not reply. Using a red pencil, he was circling the area on the map where the professors might cross into Czechoslovakia, trying to estimate the distance from Metten Abbey.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Matt paused for a second before answering. Two million dollars. Fuck. Most people would be ecstatic, but Matt was not most people. He saw the money as a burden, not a blessing. And then there was the oddness of the situation, his father's matter-of-fact tone, as if...as if what? But his father had moved on. That part of the conversation—the part where he might have an opportunity to complain or make a joke or ask for advice—was over. That's what his father's silence had meant.
  This question stopped Matt in his tracks. Are you interested? Later, when the Nico Pugach affair was over and done, he would realize exactly what the question was and what his father had meant it to be: a turning point, a choice to make.
  More silence. His father, like a Zen master, a very incongruous Zen master, had said to him many times, take everything at face value, take nothing at face value. He had puzzled over this obviously contradictory advice for years, until Nico showed up in America and seemed so different—and then asked him for half a million dollars.
  Chris Massi laughed his deep throaty laugh, a sound that filled Matt with happiness because it was so rarely that he heard it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Chris Massi laughed his deep throaty laugh, a sound that filled Matt with happiness because it was so rarely that he heard it.. He had puzzled over this obviously contradictory advice for years, until Nico showed up in America and seemed so different—and then asked him for half a million dollars. His father, like a Zen master, a very incongruous Zen master, had said to him many times, take everything at face value, take nothing at face value.
  More silence. Are you interested? Later, when the Nico Pugach affair was over and done, he would realize exactly what the question was and what his father had meant it to be: a turning point, a choice to make.
  This question stopped Matt in his tracks. That's what his father's silence had meant. That part of the conversation—the part where he might have an opportunity to complain or make a joke or ask for advice—was over.as if what? But his father had moved on... And then there was the oddness of the situation, his father's matter-of-fact tone, as if. He saw the money as a burden, not a blessing. Most people would be ecstatic, but Matt was not most people. Fuck. Two million dollars.Matt paused for a second before answering