conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a story about Point, English, Brave with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this story could be 'Ape and Essence'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Ape and Essence
  Carried away by his own shrill eloquence and forgetting for a moment that he is not in the pulpit of St. Azazel's, the Arch-Vicar makes a sweeping gesture. The trotter falls off his fork. With a good-humoured laugh at his own expense, he picks it up from the floor, wipes it on the sleeve of his goatskin cassock, takes another bite and continues.
  For a few seconds they sit without speaking. The dim, blurred monotone of the chant swells into audibility. 'Blood, blood, blood, the blood...' There is a faint cry as yet another little monster is spitted on the Patriarch's knife, then the thudding of bulls' pizzles on flesh and, through the excited roaring of the congregation, a succession of loud, scarcely human screams.
  Another unusually piercing scream makes him turn his head towards the door. He watches for a while in silence. This time, his expression is one in which horror has been considerably mitigated by scientific curiosity.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We dissolve to the exterior of the Unholy of Unholies, two weeks later. Several hundreds of bearded men and slatternly women are queued up, in double file, awaiting their turn to enter the shrine. The Camera passes down the long line of dull and dirty faces, then holds on Loola and Dr. Poole, who are in the act of passing through the sliding doors.
  Within all is gloom and silence. Two by two the nymphs and prancing satyrs of a few short days ago shuffle despondently past an altar, whose mighty candle is now eclipsed by a tin extinguisher. At the foot of the Arch-Vicar's empty throne lies the heap of discarded Seventh Commandments. As the procession slowly passes, the Archimandrite in charge of Public Morals hands out to every male an apron and to every female an apron and four round patches.
  And out through the side door, when their turn comes, Loola and Dr. Poole duly go. There, in the sunshine, a score of Postulants are busily at work, with thread and needle, stitching aprons to waist-bands, patches to trouser seats and shirt fronts.
  The Camera holds on Loola. Three young seminarists in Toggenbarg cassocks accost her as she emerges into the open air.
  She hands her apron to the first, a patch to each of the others. All three set to work simultaneously and with extraordinary rapidity. NO, NO and NO.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We dissolve to the exterior of the Unholy of Unholies, two weeks later. Several hundreds of bearded men and slatternly women are queued up, in double file, awaiting their turn to enter the shrine. The Camera passes down the long line of dull and dirty faces, then holds on Loola and Dr. Poole, who are in the act of passing through the sliding doors.
  Within all is gloom and silence. Two by two the nymphs and prancing satyrs of a few short days ago shuffle despondently past an altar, whose mighty candle is now eclipsed by a tin extinguisher. At the foot of the Arch-Vicar's empty throne lies the heap of discarded Seventh Commandments. As the procession slowly passes, the Archimandrite in charge of Public Morals hands out to every male an apron and to every female an apron and four round patches.
  And out through the side door, when their turn comes, Loola and Dr. Poole duly go. There, in the sunshine, a score of Postulants are busily at work, with thread and needle, stitching aprons to waist-bands, patches to trouser seats and shirt fronts.
  The Camera holds on Loola. Three young seminarists in Toggenbarg cassocks accost her as she emerges into the open air.
  She hands her apron to the first, a patch to each of the others. All three set to work simultaneously and with extraordinary rapidity.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And now we are in the foothills above the floor of the desert. Between the clumps of sage-brush, the yuccas and the juniper bushes the walking is easy. Dr. Poole and Loola enter the shot, and the Camera trucks with them as they come striding down the slope.
  She points, and from their viewpoint we see at the foot of a very tall Joshua-tree a slab of weathered concrete, standing crookedly at the head of an ancient grave, overgrown with bunch-grass and buckwheat.
  They approach, and in a close shot of the slab we see, while Dr. Poole's voice reads aloud, the following inscription:
  And while Loola opens her knapsack and takes out bread and fruit and eggs and strips of dried meat, he turns over the pages of his duodecimo Shelley.
  There is a silence. Then Loola hands him a hard-boiled egg. He cracks it on the headstone and, as he peels it, scatters the white fragments of the shell over the grave.