conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Susan, Elementary, Education with the genre: Romance, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Better Than Fiction'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first two paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Better Than Fiction
  To my surprise, however, I found that many of my readers took it to be a real city, and wrote to ask me how to get there. How to get there indeed? How to get to Hav? The more I thought about it, the more clearly I realized that I had indeed made a long, long journey to reach my imaginary destination, a journey in the mind as well as in the body, through history as through geography. It was my life's journey, really, mirrored in fancy, but I sent my readers there by a convenient short cut. 'I made it all up,' I told them.
  All, every one, old and new, northern and southern, occidental and oriental – all lay along my route to Hav.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When my Australia Council residency ran out, I wasn't ready to go back to England. I moved to an apartment in Monti and lived on Via del Boschetto for six months; my home was a one-bedroom flat on a cobbled, narrow street, not wide enough to let a Range-Rover through. I was happy. I understood, of course, that Italy is hell for its thinking natives; for the gentle, patrician and wise, Italy under Berlusconi's demented rule was a country of ever-worsening chaos, its major cities anarchic and its politics corrupt, racist, sexist, puerile, a bureaucracy jammed with nepotistic favours.
  Rome is a stunning city, but it's also a dirty and disorganised shambles. Still, I'd never felt so alive, or so at home. The way Italians live for pleasure, so quick to love and hate, and are not so much interested in work; the way the air caught my skin, the way people throw their hands about, the way ancient ruins are unearthed whenever city engineers try to finish building the subway – all of these things made me want to go out at four a.m. and prowl like a wolf. For the whole year I lived in Rome, I did little else but write, and eat, and walk, and ride on a scooter in the beautiful streets, and drink espresso, and eat and talk. In that kind of way, I was living a life without interference from Italy's messes and I was, I suppose, and still am, stupid enough to think Rome is perfect.
  When he was about a body-length away, I lurched at him, grabbed him by the wrist, and threw him down. He hit the cobbles, hard, and I got my phone. As he bounced up from the cobblestones, he called me a pig, bastard, bitch, and walked away, slow, watchful, hunting for another idiot.
  I was back in Rome about three months later. I'd been living in Manchester and lecturing in Creative Writing at the University of Manchester, and I was invited to a writers' festival in Bologna. After Bologna, I stopped for a few days in Rome.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last two paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I did not fully understand why this was a sacred place to me until I became a writer. As a student at the University of Southern California, I was reluctantly introduced to the Towers as part of a college art class, the aim of which was to better acquaint its students with Los Angeles. While I thought the Towers were 'cool' – and then, as time went by, 'really cool' – their emotional impact on me did not manifest for years. I was not thinking about death, or how everything in life tries so hard to work against it. I was not thinking about time, and how it is made up only of stories and memories. I was not thinking about the human spirit, and how its most triumphant compulsion is to make something out of nothing. Now I realize that the builder, Simon Rodia, was doing exactly what writers do: making a patchwork out of fragments, a whole out of disparate realities. Every object studded into the concrete of his Towers has a story connected with some other life, and together they make up a new story, the fabric of his experience, his own understanding of the world.
  When I think of Simon Rodia, I always imagine him waking, sitting up in his tiny house on a plot of land barely bigger than a tennis court. It is dark, and he is alone. Decades and thousands of miles separate him from his hometown of Serino, Italy. Through his doorway, he sees what he calls Nuestro Pueblo, the monument he has built to remind himself of it: arches and spires and coils of steel and mortar, inlaid with seashells and bowling pins, glass bottle bottoms and broken pottery, a ragged tile mosaic culled from the household accidents and disposed debris of a community that is convinced he is insane. He will get dressed, assess the damage his unwelcome life's work may have sustained at irreverent hands during the night, then walk for miles, searching for more materials in the abandoned lots and garbage dumps of Watts. When he returns, he will climb the Towers and build on. When he abandons the site, ten years before his death, he will have no idea that his structures, built entirely by his own two hands, will withstand municipal condemnation and the devastation of the Northridge earthquake, or serve as a center of the very community that shunned him, or become a gathering place for dreamers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When he abandons the site, ten years before his death, he will have no idea that his structures, built entirely by his own two hands, will withstand municipal condemnation and the devastation of the Northridge earthquake, or serve as a center of the very community that shunned him, or become a gathering place for dreamers.. When he returns, he will climb the Towers and build on. He will get dressed, assess the damage his unwelcome life's work may have sustained at irreverent hands during the night, then walk for miles, searching for more materials in the abandoned lots and garbage dumps of Watts. Through his doorway, he sees what he calls Nuestro Pueblo, the monument he has built to remind himself of it: arches and spires and coils of steel and mortar, inlaid with seashells and bowling pins, glass bottle bottoms and broken pottery, a ragged tile mosaic culled from the household accidents and disposed debris of a community that is convinced he is insane. Decades and thousands of miles separate him from his hometown of Serino, Italy. It is dark, and he is alone.
  When I think of Simon Rodia, I always imagine him waking, sitting up in his tiny house on a plot of land barely bigger than a tennis court. Every object studded into the concrete of his Towers has a story connected with some other life, and together they make up a new story, the fabric of his experience, his own understanding of the world. Now I realize that the builder, Simon Rodia, was doing exactly what writers do: making a patchwork out of fragments, a whole out of disparate realities. I was not thinking about the human spirit, and how its most triumphant compulsion is to make something out of nothing. I was not thinking about time, and how it is made up only of stories and memories. I was not thinking about death, or how everything in life tries so hard to work against it. While I thought the Towers were 'cool' – and then, as time went by, 'really cool' – their emotional impact on me did not manifest for years. As a student at the University of Southern California, I was reluctantly introduced to the Towers as part of a college art class, the aim of which was to better acquaint its students with Los Angeles.I did not fully understand why this was a sacred place to me until I became a writer