conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled A Distant Shore about Dorothy, England, Desperate with the genre: Literature & Fiction, United States.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Desperate, displaced people populate the latest from award-winning essayist, critic and novelist the author (Crossing the River; The Nature of Blood). Dorothy is a divorced retired schoolteacher with a troubled past and an increasingly precarious present, drifting further into depression and mental illness in the small northern England town of Weston where she has gone to flee the death of her sister and a series of reckless love affairs with married men. Solomon, in his early 30s, is a survivor of a war-torn African country, witness to events and atrocities almost too painful to recount, which include the execution of his own family. They meet in a small corner of England, given one last chance at redemption and belonging-this time with one another-before prejudice and brute violence destroy even that. the author crafts his novel with great skill, portraying his characters with a faithful eye that reveals their inner beauty as clearly as their defects. A true master of form, he manipulates narrative time (which skips, speeds and sometimes runs backward) and perspective to create a disjointed sense of place that mirrors the tortured, fractured inner lives of his characters. the author's vision is of a splintered, fragile world where little seems to have inherent meaning and love is opportunistic and fleeting. As Dorothy reaches her tragic end, she receives a visit from the husband who left her long ago for a younger woman; he himself has now been abandoned. The message of our inherent aloneness is clear. As Dorothy herself says, in a note to one of her married lovers: "Abandonment is a state that is not alien to man." The story expresses an even bleaker view: that abandonment is not only a risk, but our natural condition. <BR>Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: <BR>Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc. Dorothy is a divorced retired schoolteacher with a troubled past and an increasingly precarious present, drifting further into depression and mental illness in the small northern England town of Weston where she has gone to flee the death of her sister and a series of reckless love affairs with married men. Solomon, in his early 30s, is a survivor of a war-torn African country, witness to events and atrocities almost too painful to recount, which include the execution of his own family. They meet in a small corner of England, given one last chance at redemption and belonging-this time with one another-before prejudice and brute violence destroy even that. the author crafts his novel with great skill, portraying his characters with a faithful eye that reveals their inner beauty as clearly as their defects. A true master of form, he manipulates narrative time (which skips, speeds and sometimes runs backward) and perspective to create a disjointed sense of place that mirrors the tortured, fractured inner lives of his characters. the author's vision is of a splintered, fragile world where little seems to have inherent meaning and love is opportunistic and fleeting. As Dorothy reaches her tragic end, she receives a visit from the husband who left her long ago for a younger woman; he himself has now been abandoned. The message of our inherent aloneness is clear. As Dorothy herself says, in a note to one of her married lovers: "Abandonment is a state that is not alien to man." The story expresses an even bleaker view: that abandonment is not only a risk, but our natural condition.Desperate, displaced people populate the latest from award-winning essayist, critic and novelist the author (Crossing the River; The Nature of Blood).
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first two paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Distant Shore
  She continues to teach because there is nothing else for her to do. It is too late for a change of career, and there is no other profession that she can imagine herself pursuing. The truth is she lost the passion for teaching music at about the same rate that English schoolchildren appeared to lose the passion for learning. And the piano is not a popular instrument. Was it ever? In the remote hope that she might unearth a singular talent she takes private pupils, but she understands that she is little more than an unwelcome distraction for middle-class children whose parents are determined to provide them with socially acceptable skills. To most pupils she is no different from their ballet teacher or their tennis professional. But, mercifully, she has not lost her love for the music itself. After Brian left she thought about trying to compose. Her few university compositions were praised, and her senior lecturer had written her a note asking her to perhaps consider applying for a scholarship to the Royal College of Music in London. But little did he know that her sail was already hoisted in the direction of Birmingham. These days she practises again, and she tries to tease notes into tuneful shapes. Sometimes she writes down her patterns, but she does not tell this to Mahmood. Occasionally she sees him in his shop wearing a personal stereo, a discordant, tinny whine leaking out from the badly padded headset. She is used to offering herself up to his boredom, but after her disastrous attempt to interest him in Chopin, she now refuses to expose her beloved music to his stone ears.
  He turns and looks at her. He smiles with his black eyes, but he says nothing. He is dressed now, and he stands and turns fully to face her. She lies entangled in the sheets and stares up at him, a fish trapped.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Her sister sleeps right through until the morning. She is sitting at the kitchen table when the phone rings and she grabs it, keen that it should not wake Sheila. She recognises Mr. Jowett's voice.
  She pours the hot water, and then she reaches for an herbal tea bag. And then she remembers. She hands Sheila her hot water, but she places the tea bag on the side. Sheila can make up her own mind. She leaves her sister to contemplate, and she goes upstairs to pack her bag.
  She sits in Mr. Jowett's office, but is somewhat surprised to find that only he is present. Miss Arthurton shuts the door gingerly, careful to make no noise whatsoever. She leaves them alone. And now Mr. Jowett speaks. He places both hands on the desk in front of him, and she wonders if he is aware of the fact that he is striking an awkward, even vaguely ridiculous, pose.
  She looks through the window of the bus at the people in the streets below. Her town feels small after London. She had thought this as she rode home in the taxi from the bus station. She literally dropped her bags in the hallway, nudged the mail to one side with the outside of her shoe, and then dashed back out and into the taxi whose meter continued to tick. She had asked the driver to wait so that she would not be late for her appointment with what she imagined would be a panel of stern-faced interrogators. She smiles at her folly and gazes down at the mid-afternoon trickle of shoppers. And then she sees the newly daubed signs on the sloping slate roofs, signs that are meant to be read from the upper deck. In tall white letters somebody has painted GOD IS GOOD, and on the neighbouring roof, CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SINS. If her mother had had her way, such sentiments would have meant something to her but, with some regret in her heart, she has to acknowledge that her father's opinions in these matters enjoy total dominion. This being the case, she looks at the defaced roofs and finds it surprising that the council doesn't have rules and regulations against this type of graffiti.
  When the bus reaches her stop she gets to her feet and moves quickly down the stairs to the lower deck, and then she steps down and onto the pavement. It is as though she has no control over her decision. She walks straight to the shop and as she opens the door she hears the familiar tinkle of the doorbell. He is alone. Mahmood seems neither shocked nor angry. In fact, he seems curiously shy.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In fact, he seems curiously shy. She is sitting at the kitchen table when the phone rings and she grabs it, keen that it should not wake Sheila. She recognises Mr. Jowett's voice.
  She pours the hot water, and then she reaches for an herbal tea bag. And then she remembers. She hands Sheila her hot water, but she places the tea bag on the side. Sheila can make up her own mind. She leaves her sister to contemplate, and she goes upstairs to pack her bag.
  She sits in Mr. Jowett's office, but is somewhat surprised to find that only he is present. Miss Arthurton shuts the door gingerly, careful to make no noise whatsoever. She leaves them alone. And now Mr. Jowett speaks. He places both hands on the desk in front of him, and she wonders if he is aware of the fact that he is striking an awkward, even vaguely ridiculous, pose.
  She looks through the window of the bus at the people in the streets below. Her town feels small after London. She had thought this as she rode home in the taxi from the bus station. She literally dropped her bags in the hallway, nudged the mail to one side with the outside of her shoe, and then dashed back out and into the taxi whose meter continued to tick. She had asked the driver to wait so that she would not be late for her appointment with what she imagined would be a panel of stern-faced interrogators. She smiles at her folly and gazes down at the mid-afternoon trickle of shoppers. And then she sees the newly daubed signs on the sloping slate roofs, signs that are meant to be read from the upper deck. In tall white letters somebody has painted GOD IS GOOD, and on the neighbouring roof, CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SINS. If her mother had had her way, such sentiments would have meant something to her but, with some regret in her heart, she has to acknowledge that her father's opinions in these matters enjoy total dominion. This being the case, she looks at the defaced roofs and finds it surprising that the council doesn't have rules and regulations against this type of graffiti.
  When the bus reaches her stop she gets to her feet and moves quickly down the stairs to the lower deck, and then she steps down and onto the pavement. It is as though she has no control over her decision. She walks straight to the shop and as she opens the door she hears the familiar tinkle of the doorbell. He is alone. Mahmood seems neither shocked nor angry.Her sister sleeps right through until the morning.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Today I've made a decision to not say anything to anybody, and I can see how uncomfortable this is making her feel, but it's not really my problem, is it? I'm interested in flowers and she's not, and that's about all there is to it. I didn't ask her to sit with me, so if she wants to go that's fine. But at least it's a nice day and we can sit outside. For the past two days it's been teeming down and it's been really depressing being stuck inside in the recreation room with the television on, and half-finished jigsaw puzzles everywhere, and people milling about and trying to behave like they're normal. She doesn't know how lucky she is to be sitting outdoors in the garden, with her clunky shoes and that silly tight blouse. My feet tend to perspire when I get anxious, but today they are drip-dry. I'm happy here in the sun with my flowers, and sitting under my overdressed tree that's keen to hide its brittle bones. Winter will be the undoing of it, but as it's still autumn my tree is allowed to flaunt herself. The nurse has no idea that I'm happy. She sneezes, then discreetly blows her nose into a proper handkerchief. I think she's got allergies. However, one thing that I can say about her is she's clean, and around these parts such things count.
  Dr. Williams has come to visit me. They have a tendency to call him when things are difficult, but it must be very annoying for him because it's not as if he doesn't have anything else to do. He's a very busy man. He's looking at some papers and occasionally glancing up at me, but that's about it. He isn't saying anything. I hear my stomach rumble. I'm hungry, but I hate the dinners because everything in this place is so childish. First, we all have to gather in the dining room, which is also the place where you have to meet for announcements and group activities such as jewellery-making, modelling clay, and art. Sometimes they don't even bother to clear up the activities things, and they just shove them to one side of the room. Then three orderlies roll metal trolleys of food into the room and you pick up a tray, then squeeze into a space on a bench and plonk the tray on the table top. There are two tables, with long benches on either side. We have to sit and eat off the trays, looking at each other and deciding whether or not we have anything to say to the person opposite who's watching us gulp our food. There is a colour television set in this room, but during dinner half the residents want it on and half want it off. Eventually the nurses made a decision to keep it off, but when dinner's over they turn it on whether anybody's watching or not. At least until midnight, when it has to be shut down for good. That's their idea of how to do things.
  Dr. Williams stops looking at his papers and he glances up at me, then back to the papers, and now he looks at me again. He pushes the papers away and brings his elbows up and onto the table. ("So, Dorothy, tell me how things are?") I stare at him, but it's difficult to know where to begin. I feel as though I'm wasting his time, but I've got to say something. I think about telling him that there's a room near here where some of them play table tennis. I pass this games room on the way to my own room, but it's far too bright to go into it. They have those long neon lights hanging from the ceiling. There's always a nurse in there, just sitting and watching in case things get a little out of hand. But hardly anyone plays table tennis, except two young girls who look so sedated that it's a wonder they can lift the bats. They're thin, and they must have that eating disease. If you ask me it's a bit of a waste of time having the nurse there. She could be far better deployed in some other part of this place. Or answering the question, where are all the men? There are a couple of men who shuffle around with their trousers half-hanging off, and a younger man who dresses nicely, apart from some stains on his blue polo-neck jumper. They look like food stains. I suppose men drink their problems away in the pub. Or hit people. Maybe Dr. Williams knows why there are so few men in this place. I think about asking him, but instead I begin to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
  I like to lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Particularly at night. Of course, days in this place never really begin. There's no routine. There's nothing that you have to do, except take your tablets and your hot milk and behave. A piano would help. Especially now that the years of discord between the keys has been resolved, and I'm once more able to make them speak easily to each other. I'm lucky because the patterns of music that Sheila helped me to discover remain firmly stitched together, as I knew they would. But there's no piano. There's no routine. The unit, as they like to call it when they're being official, is supposed to be a place that's different from out there. A retreat. Somewhere where you can lick your wounds and gather some strength before going back to the world. A place where you can learn to remember, and therefore understand your life. But what use is that now? They say they're protecting us. In here, time doesn't matter. At night they allow me to leave the curtains open and I watch the shadows of the trees making strange shapes against my wall. I know that this is not Weston. Or Stoneleigh. There is no viaduct in the distance. My heart remains a desert, but I tried. I had a feeling that Solomon understood me. This is not my home, and until they accept this, then I will be as purposefully silent as a bird in flight. Sometime before dawn, as light begins to bleed slowly through the night sky, I will ease myself out of this bed and proceed to put on my day face.