conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Jenny, Nicole, Joyce with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Language of Sisters'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled The Language of Sisters about Oregon, Southern, California with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author was born in Southern California and grew up in Oregon. The author of many popular novels, including Julia's Chocolates and Henry's Sisters , she writes full time and lives with her family in Beaverton, Oregon. Readers can visit her website at cathylamb.org.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Language of Sisters
  I knew how to slip my fingers in, soft and smooth, like moving silk. I was lightning quick, a sleight of hand, a twist of the wrist. I was adept at disappearing, at hiding, at waiting, until it was safe to run, to escape.
  I was a little girl, in the frigid cold of Moscow, under the looming shadow of the Soviet Union, my coat too small, my shoes too tight, my stomach an empty shell.
  But we did. We survived. My father barely, my mother only through endless grit and determination, but now we are here, in Oregon, a noisy family, who does not talk about what happened back in Russia, twenty-five years ago. It is best to forget, my parents have told us, many times.
  We tried to forget, but in the inky-black silence of night, when Mother Russia intrudes upon our dreams, like a swishing scythe, a crooked claw emerging from the ruins of tragedy, when we remember family members buried under the frozen wasteland of the Soviet Union's far reaches, we are all haunted, some more than others.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The whole Kozlovsky family went to the opening night of Anya's play. It was titled The Many Splendored Lives of Marie Bennett. Anya was Marie. She was absolutely brilliant. Hilarious, serious, honest, raw, demanding, charismatic, flawed, lovable.
  No one would ever guess that the night before, gorgeous Anya had called me because she was worried she had "contracted a rare disease. I can tell by the slight pimples on my left arm..."
  All the Kozlovskys were at my uncle Yuri's and aunt Polina's to celebrate their anniversary. It was at their home, about a half mile from ours, brick, stone, traditional colonial style, built about forty years ago. The event was catered, and we were having French food, French wine, and Russian-made vodka. "For the fancy," my aunt Polina told me. Aunt Polina had done the flowers, of course, from her shop.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The new owner has promised me she will let the ducks up on the deck. She will be friends with my friends here, I know it.
  I have lived in Moscow, Germany, the suburbs of Portland, a tugboat, and now I'm moving to a home in the country where we will have land and space, peace and quiet.
  We have bought a light blue house with a wraparound deck, a white porch swing, a view of the coast mountains and, I'm told, daisies that grow profusely in summer, all over the property.
  I knew how to slip my fingers in, soft and smooth, like moving silk. I was lightning quick, a sleight of hand, a twist of the wrist. I was adept at disappearing, at hiding, at waiting, until it was safe to run, to escape.
  I was a little girl, in the frigid cold of Moscow, under the looming shadow of the Soviet Union, my coat too small, my shoes too tight, my stomach an empty shell.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I was a little girl, in the frigid cold of Moscow, under the looming shadow of the Soviet Union, my coat too small, my shoes too tight, my stomach an empty shell. She will be friends with my friends here, I know it.
  I have lived in Moscow, Germany, the suburbs of Portland, a tugboat, and now I'm moving to a home in the country where we will have land and space, peace and quiet.
  We have bought a light blue house with a wraparound deck, a white porch swing, a view of the coast mountains and, I'm told, daisies that grow profusely in summer, all over the property.
  I knew how to slip my fingers in, soft and smooth, like moving silk. I was lightning quick, a sleight of hand, a twist of the wrist. I was adept at disappearing, at hiding, at waiting, until it was safe to run, to escape.The new owner has promised me she will let the ducks up on the deck.