conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Red Sky At Sunrise about Spain, War, Spanning with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Spanning the first twenty-three years of his remarkable life, the author's celebrated autobiographical trilogy is presented here in one delightful volume. Beginning with "Cider with Rosie", the author writes evocatively of his idyllic childhood in the Cotswolds of the twenties, a world of rich sensuousness and native innocence. "As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning" picks up the story as he leaves his valley for London and then for Spain. There, equipped only with a violin and his wits, he crossed the dramatic landscape of a vibrant and still almost medieval Spain for which he developed an abiding affection. In the winter of 1937 he returned to a country now in the grip of Civil War and joined the International Brigade, describing in "A Moment of War" his journey into the dark side of Spain with unsparing honesty and poignancy.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In the winter of 1937 he returned to a country now in the grip of Civil War and joined the International Brigade, describing in "A Moment of War" his journey into the dark side of Spain with unsparing honesty and poignancy.. There, equipped only with a violin and his wits, he crossed the dramatic landscape of a vibrant and still almost medieval Spain for which he developed an abiding affection. "As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning" picks up the story as he leaves his valley for London and then for Spain. Beginning with "Cider with Rosie", the author writes evocatively of his idyllic childhood in the Cotswolds of the twenties, a world of rich sensuousness and native innocence.Spanning the first twenty-three years of his remarkable life, the author's celebrated autobiographical trilogy is presented here in one delightful volume
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.. Start with the sentence 'Red Sky At Sunrise
  Now that Almuiiecar had come out under the scarlet banner, the morning was one of mounting action'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Red Sky At Sunrise
  Now that Almuiiecar had come out under the scarlet banner, the morning was one of mounting action. This was the day when the peasants and fishermen openly took over the village, commandeering the houses of suspects and the empty villas of the rich and painting across them their plans for a new millennium. 'Here will be the Nursery School.' 'Here will be the House of Culture.' 'Here will be a Sanatorium for Women.' 'Workers, Respect this House for Agricultural Science.' 'Here will be a Training College for Girls'. Each of the large bold words was painstakingly written in red, a memoranda of a brief and innocent euphoria. For who among the crowds could guess, as they gathered in the streets to read them, that these naive hopes would later be treated as outrage?
  Meanwhile the militia were massing for a new attack on Altofaro, undeterred by yesterday's failure. They formed up raggedly in the square, polishing their guns on their trousers and watched by a scattering of wide-eyed dogs and boys. Manolo and El Gato, in long blue overalls, marched up and down the ranks; Manolo pale and stern, El Gato loud and jovial, teasing the men with macabre jokes. The militia were mixed, some old and grizzled, others young, bright-faced, and swaggering. There was also a platoon of teenage girls armed with hand-grenades. Nobody joked with them.
  About noon the militia climbed into their open lorries and rattled off up the coastal road, standing stiff and straight, arms raised in salute, calm, but not singing now. We watched the swirl of white dust climb the side of the hill and hang over the ridge in the hot still air. After they'd gone, the village was left in a kind of limbo, not knowing what to do.
  I went and sat in a bar, feeling bereft and impotent, as though robbed of some great occasion. I'd seen those silent men and muscular stiff-lipped girls riding to a war just down the road, to a blaze of battle under a burning sky offering all the trappings of heroic carnage. That special adrenalin in the young which makes war easy, and welcomes it, drew me voluptuously towards Altofaro.
  Then why hadn't I gone? It would not have been difficult. Manolo would have arranged the thing in a moment. Even so, I hung back, as from some family affair in which I still doubted I had a part.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: About four o'clock I was handcuffed and taken under guard to a room where several militiamen were playing dominoes. They got up when I entered, and went away whistling. Through the door they left open I could see a small courtyard, and snow falling from a sunset sky.
  One of the guards gave me a cigarette, the other touched my arm. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'It's easy, brother.' Patches of sweat showed through his light blue shirt. Then I heard a murmuring of voices in the next room, subdued salutations and greetings; a sliding panel in the wall was suddenly pushed back. Faces peered at me briskly, one by one – the two Russians, each with a brief nod of the head, an unknown officer in a fur-collared coat, then, framed like some fake Van Gogh freakishly elongated, appeared the unmistakable face of the giraffe-necked Frenchman who had guided me the last few steps across the mountain frontier. One look at me and he covered his eyes in mock horror.
  He seemed to find the sight of me – manacled and doomed in Albacete's death row – more diverting than anything else. He turned and spoke rapidly to his companions in the other room, and I heard his high-pitched Gallic cackle. A few orders were given, my handcuffs unlocked, and I was told to get back to the barracks. The two Russians, Tomasina, the girl, the boy, the long shivering night and day of preparation were over. Suddenly, inexplicably free again, I realized that a word from the little French guide showed him to have more power than anyone else around.
  Crossing the square in the red twilight, on my way to the barracks, I met Sam striding in the opposite direction. Without a word of greeting or even a glance of recognition, he thrust into my hand the packet of farewell letters I'd written.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Now I was on my way back, with official papers to help me, sale sin dinero, and little else. The two mountain boulders I'd walked between, on my way into Spain, had seemed almost too simple a way to enter a war. In reverse, it was even simpler; our train took a gulping breath, left the underworld behind it, and screwed through the short tunnel between Port Bou and Cerebere. Curtains were lifted, we saw fresh morning skies, neon-lit cafes, and smelt the hot fat butter of France...
  At dawn the next day I arrived at Victoria station and saw the cloud of her breath where she waited. She looked at my hands, then my face, and gave her short jackal laugh. I sniffed the cold misty fur of her hair.
  Then I was back in her flat. In high wealthy Hampstead. She drew me in with her blue steady gaze. I remember the flowers on the piano, the white sheets on her bed, her deep mouth, and love without honour. Without honour, but at least with salvation.