conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Jesse, Cal, Lillian with the genre: Children's Books, Growing Up & Facts of Life?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Land of 10,000 Madonnas'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Land of 10,000 Madonnas
  It was a lie. There is no Choice. Here are the facts: it's a sunny day in May, it's the most beautiful month in the most beautiful state in the Union, and I'm seventeen, lying in bed, about to do absolutely nothing.
  Ben never picked up his phone, but I left an urgent voice mail. He called that evening. "I'm vastly busy, Jesse. Finals are nigh."
  Ben blanched. He started jabbering. "This isn't academic research, which is what you made it sound like, and I'm hardly some cousinly gumshoe—"
  We met after school the next day. It was early December, and he looked windswept in his blue pullover. He told me all about his coursework as we walked into the Bancroft Library. "All but three of us dropped Akkadian, can you believe it? The verbs conjugate with infixes. Entertaining, but complex. Good afternoon, Marcus, how are you?" This last was to the security guard, who waved us through without requesting Ben's Berkeley ID or, crucially, mine. "I can only dream of achieving fluency in an infix-based tense system."
  Ben preened. That is, he preened Ben-style: he ruffled his hair and grimaced. "Fortunately, I'm well apprised in departmental politics. You know Professor Ferston?" He didn't wait for an answer. "She loathes Uncle Arnold."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: three more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: With the help of Google Translate, Trevor called a taxi. They supported Ben down the stairs. "We'll be back soon," said Trevor. "Don't worry. Modern medicine works miracles, I hear." He waved out the window, and the taxi pulled away. Cal slowly climbed the stairs again and drew shut the bolt on the empty room.
  It felt strange to be alone. She sprawled across the bed without taking off her shoes. She would lie down for one minute. Matt and Lillian would be back soon. She just needed to rest her eyes.
  She was back on that immense plain. The crowd thronged around her. They thrummed with anticipation. Whatever they were waiting for, it would happen soon. Cal felt a choking panic. She had to find him. She tugged the sleeve of a woman whose silver hair was swept into a French twist. "Have you seen him?" The woman gave a tinkling laugh and whispered in the ear of her tuxedoed companion. Her diamond earrings frosted over and winked. Of course they wouldn't heed her, dressed as she was in a stretchy black skort, a tank top, a bedraggled ponytail. She felt like a child. She looked down. She wore sandals, while they wore stilettos and polished oxfords. And beneath their elegant arches and pointed toe caps were the cobblestones of Saint Peter's Piazza. She realized it with no surprise, as if all along she'd secretly known where she was. Now that she thought to look, she could see the obelisk's needle and the statues atop the colonnade. In the distance was the miter of the great dome.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They supported Ben down the stairs. "We'll be back soon," said Trevor. "Don't worry. Modern medicine works miracles, I hear." He waved out the window, and the taxi pulled away. Cal slowly climbed the stairs again and drew shut the bolt on the empty room.
  It felt strange to be alone. She sprawled across the bed without taking off her shoes. She would lie down for one minute. Matt and Lillian would be back soon. She just needed to rest her eyes.
  She was back on that immense plain. The crowd thronged around her. They thrummed with anticipation. Whatever they were waiting for, it would happen soon. Cal felt a choking panic. She had to find him. She tugged the sleeve of a woman whose silver hair was swept into a French twist. "Have you seen him?" The woman gave a tinkling laugh and whispered in the ear of her tuxedoed companion. Her diamond earrings frosted over and winked. Of course they wouldn't heed her, dressed as she was in a stretchy black skort, a tank top, a bedraggled ponytail. She felt like a child. She looked down. She wore sandals, while they wore stilettos and polished oxfords. And beneath their elegant arches and pointed toe caps were the cobblestones of Saint Peter's Piazza. She realized it with no surprise, as if all along she'd secretly known where she was. Now that she thought to look, she could see the obelisk's needle and the statues atop the colonnade. In the distance was the miter of the great dome.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Cal. Here you are. Here's your infinitesimal slice of the consciousness of Jesse T. Serrano, former human being.
  I keep saying there's no Choice, and what I've meant is that you can't choose: you have no right or ability to select one of the two alternatives. But I didn't go far enough. There's no Choice because the Choice itself is wrong. It's a false dilemma. The alternatives are not alternatives at all. Long versus short, quiet versus heroic: they're the same. In the scope of infinity, in a universe with no edge, human history is a flare and human consciousness is a blink. All lives are short and all lives are quiet.
  But all lives are glorious too, Cal. To live! To live like a human! You are ordinary and extraordinary all at once. You have a heart that contracts and relaxes and beats out your moments. You are alive and you know you are alive. Your too-short time is long enough.
  And I've chosen. My cousin, my match, listen to me and tell them all. Tell Trevor and Ben and Matt and Lill. Tell my father. Tell the ten thousand Madonnas, each and every one.
  Erin Clarke, editor and visionary, and Uwe Stender, agent and champion: I cannot express how grateful I am to work with you.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Here you are. Here's your infinitesimal slice of the consciousness of Jesse T. Serrano, former human being.
  I keep saying there's no Choice, and what I've meant is that you can't choose: you have no right or ability to select one of the two alternatives. But I didn't go far enough. There's no Choice because the Choice itself is wrong. It's a false dilemma. The alternatives are not alternatives at all. Long versus short, quiet versus heroic: they're the same. In the scope of infinity, in a universe with no edge, human history is a flare and human consciousness is a blink. All lives are short and all lives are quiet.
  But all lives are glorious too, Cal. To live! To live like a human! You are ordinary and extraordinary all at once. You have a heart that contracts and relaxes and beats out your moments. You are alive and you know you are alive. Your too-short time is long enough.
  And I've chosen. My cousin, my match, listen to me and tell them all. Tell Trevor and Ben and Matt and Lill. Tell my father. Tell the ten thousand Madonnas, each and every one.
  Erin Clarke, editor and visionary, and Uwe Stender, agent and champion: I cannot express how grateful I am to work with you.