conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled The Raven about [the with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "[the author] strides fearlessly through and beyond his known territories.... He adds his own lines even to some of the best-known pieces, jolting the listener with an anachronism while adding a dimension of the here and now."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ... He adds his own lines even to some of the best-known pieces, jolting the listener with an anachronism while adding a dimension of the here and now."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Raven
  This is a work for the imagination; therefore I have included only audio cues, as this version is meant to be heard in the mind.
  As I look back on my life—if I could have the glorious moment—the wondrous opportunity to comprehend—the chance to see my younger self one time—to converse... to hear his thoughts....
  In the science of the mind there is no point more thrilling than to notice (which I never noticed in schools) that in our endeavors to recall to memory something long-forgotten we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance without being in the end able to remember. Under the intense scrutiny of Ligeia's eyes, I have felt the full knowledge and force of their expression and yet been unable to possess it and have felt it leave me as so many other things have left—the letter half-read, the bottle half-drunk—finding in the commonest objects of the universe a circle of analogies, of metaphors for that expression which had been willfully withheld from me, the access to the inner soul denied.
  Eyes blazed with a too-glorious effulgence, pale fingers transparent, waxen, the hue of the grave. Blue veins upon the lofty forehead swelled and sunk impetuously with the tides of deep emotion and I saw that she must die, that she was wrestling with the dark shadow. Her stern nature had impressed me with the belief that, to her, death would come without its terrors—but not so. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. I would have soothed. I would have reasoned. But she was amid the most convulsive of writhings. Oh, pitiful soul. Her voice more gentle, more low, and yet her words grew wilder of meaning. I reeled, entranced, to a melody more than mortal.
  She loved me, no doubt, and in her bosom love reigned as no ordinary passion. But in death only was I impressed with the intensity of her affection. Her more than passionate devotion amounted to idolatry. How had I deserved to be so blessed and then so cursed with the removal of my beloved upon the hour of her most delirious musings?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: My beloved sister, my sole companion, has had a long continuing illness whose inevitable conclusion seems forsworn. This will leave me the last of the ancient race of Ushers.
  I love her in a nameless way, more than I love myself. Her demise will leave me hopelessly confined to memories and realities of a future so barren as to be stultifying.
  They are baffled. Until today she refused bed rest, wanting to be present in your honor, but finally she succumbed to the prostrating power of the destroyer. You will probably see her no more.
  Sound and music take us to the twin curves of experience. Like brother and sister intertwined, they relieve themselves of bodily contact and dance in a pagan revelry.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Like brother and sister intertwined, they relieve themselves of bodily contact and dance in a pagan revelry. This will leave me the last of the ancient race of Ushers.
  I love her in a nameless way, more than I love myself. Her demise will leave me hopelessly confined to memories and realities of a future so barren as to be stultifying.
  They are baffled. Until today she refused bed rest, wanting to be present in your honor, but finally she succumbed to the prostrating power of the destroyer. You will probably see her no more.
  Sound and music take us to the twin curves of experience.My beloved sister, my sole companion, has had a long continuing illness whose inevitable conclusion seems forsworn.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: If I did not prove fool enough to make public confession. No sooner had I uttered those words than I felt an icy chill creep into my heart. I made a strong effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul. I laughed. I whistled. I walked and then walked faster. I thought I saw a formless shape approaching me from behind. And then I ran. I pushed and shoved blindly. I thought I felt a hand upon my throat—no mortal hand. I screamed, and then clearly, clearly, I enunciated pregnant sentences that consigned me to the hangman and to hell, the fullest judicial conviction.
  Under the intense scrutiny of Ligeia's eyes, I have felt the full knowledge and force of their expression and yet have been unable to possess it and have felt it leave me as so many other things have left—the letter half-read, the bottle half-drunk—finding in the commonest objects of the universe a circle of analogies, of metaphors for that expression which has been willfully withheld from me, the access to the inner soul denied.
  In consideration of the faculties and impulses of the human soul in consideration of our arrogance, our radical, primitive, irreducible arrogance of reason, we have all overlooked the propensity. We saw no need for it, the paradoxical something which we may call perverseness. Through its promptings, we act without comprehensible object.
  My love. The king by any other name a pissoir. You, my love, tower over them all; they are but vermin beneath your heels. They are monkeys. Suit them—frame them to your own vision—but do not let one false word of mockery seep through to your vast heart. I have seen you from close and afar, and your worth far exceeds your height, your width, the depth of your sorrow.
  O willful outcast, dost thou not see the light of our love—our linked fortunes—our hearts melded together into one fine golden braided finery? They listen to the music of idiots and amuse themselves with the sordid miseries of their businesses. They are not the things of angels or of any higher outpost that humanity might aspire to. Your loathsome vomitous businessman king is of the lowest order, his advisers crumbling mockeries of education driven by avarice. My love, dress them in the suits of mockery, and in their advanced state of stupidity and senility, burn and destroy them, so their ashes might join the compost which they so much deserve. If justice on this earth be fleeting, let us for once hear the weeping and the braying of the businessman king. Let them be the orangutans they are and set them blazing from the chandelier for all to see—hanging from the ceiling by their ridiculous chains and petticoats, which you will have them wear under the guise of costumic buffoonery. He who underestimates in time is bound to find the truth sublime and hollow lie upon the grates of systemic disorder.