conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Flawlessly, Times with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'A Little White Death'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Little White Death
  The door opened softly and Anna crept in. She pushed the door to with her backside and leant on it. He heard the click of the latch, the sharp intake of breath and counted the seconds until she spoke.
  She let the dressing-gown fall behind her. Her nightie was hideous. A synthetic fabric in a floral pattern meant to put you off flowers, a horticultural contraceptive meant to put you off sex.
  Of course she had changed. In all the ways she was saying she had. But he could not understand the fuss she was making. She dived beneath the sheets as though picked out by the glare of limelight not the forty watts of Troy's reading lamp. All he could see was the top of her head.
  He lay T.E. Lawrence face down on the bedside table and switched the lamp off. A quick yank of the curtain and they had traded electricity for moonlight. Anna surfaced. She had a beautiful face. Small and dark, with big black eyes not unlike his own. An un-English face. Looking up at him from her rabbit hole.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is another paragraph?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All in all, it was a good recipe for suicide. Chatterton had topped himself at seventeen. Just like Clover. Except that the recipe simply didn't fit. It was him, not her, who had recognised the pointlessness of it all. Of course, it paid to know when it was all pointless. But that was him talking. His words, written by her, framed by her. But meant for him. What possible reason could she have for dying? He knew what her grandfather would say – given the chance, Troy knew he would most certainly say it any day now – she had 'so much to live for, her whole life ahead of her'. He would wait and say nothing and nod his agreement when Stan did say it. But he knew – he had nothing to live for, his life was behind him. Good bloody grief, had the woman breathed in his despair between his sheets, as he had breathed in the tubercular bacillus on some crowded Moscow streetcar? Had this been his protection – to infect her with his own misery?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last paragraph? End with the sentence '''.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: If a novel can have a single starting point, it was this. Several years ago I interviewed a reporter who had covered the Stephen Ward case in 1963, and had known Ward well. 'Any idea that he was bumped off is fantasy,' I was told. 'He killed himself.' And I started to think of a plot whose premise was 'supposing he didn't?' Once I'd gone down that road, since I'd no doubts that Ward did kill himself, the resemblances to what really happened in 1963 became those of mood, as in 'national mood', and tone rather than of incident and character. I stuck with the axis of the plot being a sex scandal because no other plot would be authentically as axiomatic of the times. As Rebecca West put it: 'The state of mind of England in 1963 was itself a historic event...'