conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled My Face for the World to See about Mesa, Arizona, V-girl with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs, True Crime?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author was born into small-town life in Mesa, Arizona to a family of religious zealots. Then WW II came and she became a "V-girl," attracting servicemen with her beautiful face and voluptuous figure. Fate led her into the underworld, where she became a confidante and girlfriend to important mobsters and shady dealers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Thus, York, Fifty-Second.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author was born into small-town life in Mesa, Arizona to a family of religious zealots. Then WW II came and she became a "V-girl," attracting servicemen with her beautiful face and voluptuous figure. Thus began her entry into the world of New York high fashion models and Fifty-Second Street strippers. Fate led her into the underworld, where she became a confidante and girlfriend to important mobsters and shady dealers.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: My Face for the World to See
  Hayes was comfortable, though that's not the same as pleased. The man in this novel seems a success, too, but he has no self-respect. When the girl asks him if he's writing at one of the studios now, "I said I wasn't, really; I was writhing." This girl has been saved from suicide, but the man has his own settled, established disquiet. He is earning "a salary somewhat in excess of what they paid an aged vice- president of a respectable bank." But he is unconvinced by such credentials. After all, Hayes was a poet (he wrote "Joe Hill"), a novelist of clenched power and dismay, and a man fairly certain that the advertised benefits—the ocean, the movie happiness, marriage—didn't work out.
  The man has left his wife and a cold marriage in New York, but the forlorn girl walking into the Pacific hardly surprises him. "At this very moment," he says,
  Hayes is the dry poet of the things we think about while lying in bed, when sleep refuses to carry us off. As this novel begins, the man seems in the superior position. He is older than the girl; he has a career; he watches her and the ocean from an upper balcony. Then he asks if she'd like to have dinner—she is pretty—and soon enough, the words will slip out of him, the unfelt, "I love you," rather as he might have someone say that in a movie script. Isn't that the kind of thing people are supposed to say? Moreover, the girl is a failure. Hoping to act, she does only auditions, and the tenuousness of her personality suggests the ordeals she may have faced at those occasions. She has been ill. She has a shrink who is holding off billing her until she makes it. When the lover takes her to a bullfight in Tijuana (a magnificent, remorseless scene) she is emotionally devastated.
  One night as they are in bed together in his house, he watches her asleep. She is moaning, grinding her teeth. She cries out, "No, no." He decides their affair is a mistake.
  I thought: she shouldn't sleep with anybody if she doesn't wish them to know her secrets. It was something more than her nakedness: more than the exhaustion after love. She was in the bed as she would be in a ditch or a field. She slept like someone who could not go any further and had already come too far. I stretched myself out beside her, a stranger, a spy, sharing the warmth of the bed. Morning seemed immeasurably far.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She wanted so much to be able to sit elegantly and attractively there in the stands, in her nice summer frock and the large straw hat she wore, and she wanted to be like a sort of minor, a diminutive queen among them, enjoying a popular spectacle, and she just couldn't make it. She just couldn't watch it. She felt wretched. Her insides hurt. She began to cry at last out of wretchedness, a little sort of crying, as though she couldn't help herself, and because they wouldn't stop it down there below in the ring. She wanted them to stop it. She was so ill. She was so exhausted. Why couldn't they stop it? Why didn't someone go to the matador, slippered and lean and elusive, and the deliberate volutions of the cape, and the waiting sword, and make him understand and he would stop it. It hurt so to watch. She hated the man in the ring and all his murderous finery. She hated the faces so dark and so indifferent and so many of them all turned outward and looking on as though it were not what it was. But they didn't stop it. They went right on presenting it to her. It went remorselessly on, sensation after sensation, blow after blow, until she was exhausted with the stiffening of her stomach and her breasts and her spine, that stiffening as she tried to resist the impact of each successive episode on the sand in the hot and partially shaded ring. It was all so different than she had expected. She was feeling so pitifully outraged. It wasn't fun at all. It wasn't anything like a game. She was crying because of the enjoyment she had thought she would have and the picture she would have made and it was too much. When the third bull went into the third blindfolded horse and got his horns under and lifted and toppled both of them, the picador and the horse, and the crowd all standing now screamed, she screamed too. The bull was going at the horse as it frantically kicked, blindfolded, on its side. The picador in all his armor was trying to crawl away. She screamed. When they came running out with capes, stamping their feet and hoo-hooing at the bull, and got the bull away, she moaned a little and leaned over and vomited. The silver fizzes and the eggs we had had in their hot sauces and a little of yesterday's wine, too. The vomit spread in a dark stain at her feet, and all around us the crowd was standing and shouting, and down there it went on and on.
  I STOOD in the doorway and I whistled and the cat didn't come. We were back from Tijuana. She had looked with loathing at the posters from Mexico City my landlady had hung on the wall of the room with the bar in it, and I put her to bed, because of the way she was feeling and the long drive back, and then I whistled for the cat and the cat didn't come. I had to be at work in the morning and it was late and I was tired and the arrangement was that I would drive her home on my way to work. I went to bed, too, and she had a slight fever in the night, so that finally I went into the other room and slept on the couch beside the bar. When I got up in the morning, I made coffee and woke her, and went to the door again and whistled and went out into the garden to look for the cat. It was getting late and I wanted to go to work. It was the cat: what was left of it. Somebody had evidently shoveled it to the sidewalk with the lid of the box and then put the cardboard over it and to make sure I picked up the lid and looked at it. It was Morgan, all right: and his eyes weren't yellow any more. I stayed there, crouched over, with the cat under the piece of cardboard. There wasn't anything I could do but go in and tell her. When I told her I knew exactly what she would think. She had slept with me and the cat was dead because of it. She hadn't anything but the cat. Now because she had come to the house and stayed and then gone with me to Tijuana she didn't have the cat any more. A car went by; someone came out of an apartment house. Had I killed the cat? She would think that. I knew that was exactly what she would think. I would have to go in and tell her. She'd go out and look at it as I had done. She would run out of the house, with a small cry. She would see from under the cardboard lid the extended tail. Morgan was dirty now. He had been in the gutter among the cars for some time. She had gone to Tijuana and hated the bullfights and she had been sick and now the cat was dead. It would be a proof of a kind. I stood up and started back toward the house. I knew I was going to be late to work that morning.
  SHE DISCOVERED I was kind, and that she liked being with me. She said: "It's so long since I've felt anything at all." At first, it was frightening to feel even these small tendrils of sensation pushing their way through the rocky heart.
  No, she wasn't falling in love, she reassured me. It was simply that she'd been in a sort of darkness of no feeling at all for so long. Now there were these touches of sweetness. These quickenings. These unexpected gusts. They were, despite the fact that she knew she was not in love, a bit disturbing. She had spoken to Dr. Ritter (still invisible to me, still unseen) about them.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about walked.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She wanted so much to be able to sit elegantly and attractively there in the stands, in her nice summer frock and the large straw hat she wore, and she wanted to be like a sort of minor, a diminutive queen among them, enjoying a popular spectacle, and she just couldn't make it. She just couldn't watch it. She felt wretched. Her insides hurt. She began to cry at last out of wretchedness, a little sort of crying, as though she couldn't help herself, and because they wouldn't stop it down there below in the ring. She wanted them to stop it. She was so ill. She was so exhausted. Why couldn't they stop it? Why didn't someone go to the matador, slippered and lean and elusive, and the deliberate volutions of the cape, and the waiting sword, and make him understand and he would stop it. It hurt so to watch. She hated the man in the ring and all his murderous finery. She hated the faces so dark and so indifferent and so many of them all turned outward and looking on as though it were not what it was. But they didn't stop it. They went right on presenting it to her. It went remorselessly on, sensation after sensation, blow after blow, until she was exhausted with the stiffening of her stomach and her breasts and her spine, that stiffening as she tried to resist the impact of each successive episode on the sand in the hot and partially shaded ring. It was all so different than she had expected. She was feeling so pitifully outraged. It wasn't fun at all. It wasn't anything like a game. She was crying because of the enjoyment she had thought she would have and the picture she would have made and it was too much. When the third bull went into the third blindfolded horse and got his horns under and lifted and toppled both of them, the picador and the horse, and the crowd all standing now screamed, she screamed too. The bull was going at the horse as it frantically kicked, blindfolded, on its side. The picador in all his armor was trying to crawl away. She screamed. When they came running out with capes, stamping their feet and hoo-hooing at the bull, and got the bull away, she moaned a little and leaned over and vomited. The silver fizzes and the eggs we had had in their hot sauces and a little of yesterday's wine, too. The vomit spread in a dark stain at her feet, and all around us the crowd was standing and shouting, and down there it went on and on. 
  I STOOD in the doorway and I whistled and the cat didn't come. We were back from Tijuana. She had looked with loathing at the posters from Mexico City my landlady had hung on the wall of the room with the bar in it, and I put her to bed, because of the way she was feeling and the long drive back, and then I whistled for the cat and the cat didn't come. I had to be at work in the morning and it was late and I was tired and the arrangement was that I would drive her home on my way to work. I went to bed, too, and she had a slight fever in the night, so that finally I went into the other room and slept on the couch beside the bar. When I got up in the morning, I made coffee and woke her, and went to the door again and whistled and went out into the garden to look for the cat. It was getting late and I wanted to go to work. I walked down the street a way and under one of the palm trees there was the lid of a cardboard box and under it a tail. It was the cat: what was left of it. Somebody had evidently shoveled it to the sidewalk with the lid of the box and then put the cardboard over it and to make sure I picked up the lid and looked at it. It was Morgan, all right: and his eyes weren't yellow any more. I stayed there, crouched over, with the cat under the piece of cardboard. There wasn't anything I could do but go in and tell her. When I told her I knew exactly what she would think. She had slept with me and the cat was dead because of it. She hadn't anything but the cat. Now because she had come to the house and stayed and then gone with me to Tijuana she didn't have the cat any more. A car went by; someone came out of an apartment house. Had I killed the cat? She would think that. I knew that was exactly what she would think. I would have to go in and tell her. She'd go out and look at it as I had done. She would run out of the house, with a small cry. She would see from under the cardboard lid the extended tail. Morgan was dirty now. He had been in the gutter among the cars for some time. She had gone to Tijuana and hated the bullfights and she had been sick and now the cat was dead. It would be a proof of a kind. I stood up and started back toward the house. I knew I was going to be late to work that morning. 
  SHE DISCOVERED I was kind, and that she liked being with me. She said: "It's so long since I've felt anything at all. " At first, it was frightening to feel even these small tendrils of sensation pushing their way through the rocky heart. 
  No, she wasn't falling in love, she reassured me. It was simply that she'd been in a sort of darkness of no feeling at all for so long. Now there were these touches of sweetness. These quickenings. These unexpected gusts. They were, despite the fact that she knew she was not in love, a bit disturbing. She had spoken to Dr. Ritter (still invisible to me, still unseen) about them.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I didn't quite believe him; not Romanoff's. But then, why not? Romanoff's, Chasen's, La Rue's: to eat, or be eaten somewhere; to see or be seen somewhere. Why not Romanoff's? With the attendant parking the car. With the huge doors opening. And a steak, rare. Why not Romanoff's, and a steak, rare? It was the legitimate, the smart, the considered, the self-protective thing. It was, after all, their world and sooner or later I had to live in it on the only possible terms: theirs. It was a delusion that I could make my own. The self-deception had been that any terms but theirs could exist. I did not want to be again that coldwater-flat hero, keeping myself neat and unimpaired in the subway at the five o'clock rush hour. So it was to be Romanoff's, and a steak, rare. Up the street, there was the glare of headlights. "Is it the doctor?" Charlie said. "That must be the doctor." For the car parked there at the curb beside the identifying palm. I watched then the driver, the car's sole occupant, appear: in a dark topcoat, short, bulky, and the street lamp caught him in a momentary pause. He was checking the house number. I saw a thick-shouldered man with, as she'd explained, an undistinguished face in a profession that asked for a somewhat distinguished face, and he hadn't that. He would find her under the etching of the two girls, and it might or it might not be in the newspapers in the morning. He went slowly toward the dark house. He went patiently toward it, undistinguished face and all, as I should have gone, as something in me in a dying effort still wanted to go.
  I STOOD on the top step, briefly suspended, looking down into the well-lighted, the warm, the communal room. Eyes, reasonably famous, turned toward me; I was smiled at by reasonably famous teeth.
  The horses were running at Hollywood Park; the bets were down on the fights at the Stadium; the reservations were in for next weekend at Las Vegas.
  It was dark outside, where I'd come from: the eyes that turned toward me turned to see who it was had come in out of the dark. She lay there, under the etching of the naked girl, and I saw Dr. Ritter bend over her. Monday morning Charlotte would be here and I'd be at the airport. It would be foggy that early: I'd stand watching as the great plane taxied in.
  I looked down again at those who also went to the airport in the early morning and who, when they were in difficulty, always had Charlie to call. They did not look like people who were guilty of anything. Careful, wary, my own teeth visible, my own eyes alert, I went down the three carpeted stairs with Charlie and I joined them.