conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled The Feast of All Souls about I>and, quot;Among, British with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: &quot;Among the most important writers of contemporary British horror,&quot;&nbsp;according to Horror legend Ramsay Campbell,<B> the author</B> is the author of <I>Tide Of Souls, The Faceless, Hell&rsquo;s Ditch </I>and the serial novel <I>Black Mountain</I>, together with the story collections <I>A Hazy Shade Of Winter, Pictures Of The Dark, Let&rsquo;s Drink To The Dead </I>and <I>The Condemned</I>. After having spent most of his life in Manchester, he now lives on the Wirral with a long-suffering girlfriend.&nbsp;When not writing, he goes for walks, watches movies, listens to music and does everything in his power to avoid having to get a proper job.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Feast of All Souls
  With maternity leave coming up in her future, she'd agreed to it; she had no doubt she'd want something to keep her occupied. And so she'd spent her time feverishly jotting notes whenever inspiration struck – descriptions of experiments, explanations of principles and clever metaphors to demonstrate them, scribbled variously on A4 and A5 paper, the backs of envelopes from the bank, even, in one case, a receipt from Tesco's in Hastings.
  They were spilled out in a heap on the table-top now. She'd spent the past couple of days making various stabs at a chapter-by-chapter plan to get the material into some semblance of order. After several attempts, she'd finished that last night – Halloween, after the bloody trick-or-treaters had stopped rattling the door every five minutes, after she and Andrew had watched a double bill of old Hammer horror movies and he'd gone off to bed. It was a tradition with them, and pretty much the only time they watched such films; as far as Alice was concerned, they were comedy gold. A few fireworks had gone off – five days early, she'd remembered thinking – while Andrew snored upstairs and bit by bit, the outline had finally come together.
  Of course, the next step was actually starting to write the damned thing properly, which was proving to be a proper bind. She'd lost count of how much tea she'd drunk, mostly done in order to avoid work by brewing up, washing up or trotting back and forth to the loo. The new addition to the Villiers household – the Blob, probably a lot less blobby by now but whose gender remained indeterminate as they'd decided to wait and see – seemed to spend most of its time tap-dancing on her bladder, and the tea influx sent it into positive overdrive.
  But here she was, back at the table, trying to get to grips with her nemesis, the heap of crumpled notes beside the laptop. First of all came the problem of deciphering what she'd scribbled down several weeks before, often under less-than-ideal conditions. Next she had to type them up. Then when she'd typed them up she realised that they were crap – they might have seemed clever and clear and perfect when she'd jotted them down, but when she read them back they seemed clumsy and stupid, so now she had to rephrase everything she'd written.
  The first emotion was fear: the baby wasn't due for another month. Was something wrong, something she might have known about if she'd been a bit less bothered about waiting and seeing what sex the baby was? Then it passed. You could get the odd contraction in the weeks leading up to the birth. She turned her attention back to her notes.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Feast of All Souls
  With maternity leave coming up in her future, she'd agreed to it; she had no doubt she'd want something to keep her occupied. And so she'd spent her time feverishly jotting notes whenever inspiration struck – descriptions of experiments, explanations of principles and clever metaphors to demonstrate them, scribbled variously on A4 and A5 paper, the backs of envelopes from the bank, even, in one case, a receipt from Tesco's in Hastings.
  They were spilled out in a heap on the table-top now. She'd spent the past couple of days making various stabs at a chapter-by-chapter plan to get the material into some semblance of order. After several attempts, she'd finished that last night – Halloween, after the bloody trick-or-treaters had stopped rattling the door every five minutes, after she and Andrew had watched a double bill of old Hammer horror movies and he'd gone off to bed. It was a tradition with them, and pretty much the only time they watched such films; as far as Alice was concerned, they were comedy gold. A few fireworks had gone off – five days early, she'd remembered thinking – while Andrew snored upstairs and bit by bit, the outline had finally come together.
  Of course, the next step was actually starting to write the damned thing properly, which was proving to be a proper bind. She'd lost count of how much tea she'd drunk, mostly done in order to avoid work by brewing up, washing up or trotting back and forth to the loo. The new addition to the Villiers household – the Blob, probably a lot less blobby by now but whose gender remained indeterminate as they'd decided to wait and see – seemed to spend most of its time tap-dancing on her bladder, and the tea influx sent it into positive overdrive.
  But here she was, back at the table, trying to get to grips with her nemesis, the heap of crumpled notes beside the laptop. First of all came the problem of deciphering what she'd scribbled down several weeks before, often under less-than-ideal conditions. Next she had to type them up. Then when she'd typed them up she realised that they were crap – they might have seemed clever and clear and perfect when she'd jotted them down, but when she read them back they seemed clumsy and stupid, so now she had to rephrase everything she'd written.
  The first emotion was fear: the baby wasn't due for another month. Was something wrong, something she might have known about if she'd been a bit less bothered about waiting and seeing what sex the baby was? Then it passed. You could get the odd contraction in the weeks leading up to the birth.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide two more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I learned it from his solicitors. It seemed I was, almost, his sole beneficiary. The mills were mine, his tenements, his warehouses – all of his considerable estate. Including Springcross House and the lands appertaining.
  Briefly I wondered if it might constitute some gesture of repentance on his part, but this I thought unlikely. More probably, it was Arodias Thorne's last, black joke. It certainly caused surprise – and, I think, suspicion, in my husband's case. I was able, I am glad to say, to convince that good man that Arodias Thorne had entertained nothing more than a paternal affection towards me, an emotion for which he had found no other outlet in his prosperous but lonely existence – hence this final and startlingly generous bequest.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When Liz Drake's best friend vanishes, nothing can stop her nightmares. Driven by the certainty he needs her help, she crosses a continent to search for him. She finds Blake comatose in a Vancouver hospital, victim of a mysterious accident that claimed his lover's life – in her dreams he drowns.
  Blake's new circle of artists and mystics draws her in, but all of them are lying or keeping dangerous secrets. Soon nightmare creatures stalk the waking city, and Liz can't fight a dream from the daylight world: to rescue Blake she must brave the darkest depths of the Dreamlands.
  Even the attempt could kill her, or leave her mind trapped or broken. And if she succeeds, she must face the monstrous Yellow King, whose slave Blake is on the verge of becoming forever.
  Late 1895, and Sherlock Holmes and his faithful companion Dr John Watson are called upon to investigate a missing persons case. On the face of it, this seems like a mystery that Holmes might relish – as the person in question vanished from a locked room. But this is just the start of an investigation that will draw the pair into contact with a shadowy organisation talked about in whispers, known only as the 'Order of the Gash.'
  As more people go missing in a similar fashion, the clues point to a sinister asylum in France and to the underworld of London. However, it is an altogether different underworld that Holmes will soon discover – as he comes face to face not only with those followers who do the Order's bidding on Earth, but those who serve it in Hell: the Cenobites. Holmes' most outlandish adventure to date, one that has remained shrouded in secrecy until now, launches him headlong into Clive Barker's famous Hellraising universe... and things will never be the same again.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: and things will never be the same again. Driven by the certainty he needs her help, she crosses a continent to search for him. She finds Blake comatose in a Vancouver hospital, victim of a mysterious accident that claimed his lover's life – in her dreams he drowns.
  Blake's new circle of artists and mystics draws her in, but all of them are lying or keeping dangerous secrets. Soon nightmare creatures stalk the waking city, and Liz can't fight a dream from the daylight world: to rescue Blake she must brave the darkest depths of the Dreamlands.
  Even the attempt could kill her, or leave her mind trapped or broken. And if she succeeds, she must face the monstrous Yellow King, whose slave Blake is on the verge of becoming forever.
  Late 1895, and Sherlock Holmes and his faithful companion Dr John Watson are called upon to investigate a missing persons case. On the face of it, this seems like a mystery that Holmes might relish – as the person in question vanished from a locked room. But this is just the start of an investigation that will draw the pair into contact with a shadowy organisation talked about in whispers, known only as the 'Order of the Gash.'
  As more people go missing in a similar fashion, the clues point to a sinister asylum in France and to the underworld of London. However, it is an altogether different underworld that Holmes will soon discover – as he comes face to face not only with those followers who do the Order's bidding on Earth, but those who serve it in Hell: the Cenobites. Holmes' most outlandish adventure to date, one that has remained shrouded in secrecy until now, launches him headlong into Clive Barker's famous Hellraising universe...When Liz Drake's best friend vanishes, nothing can stop her nightmares.