conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Prize, English, Publication with the genre: Literature & Fiction, United States?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Men Without Women'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Men Without Women
  She didn't respond. She just held her lips tight. She seemed about to say something, but it looked like if she did, she would cry. She managed to hold back the tears, as if wanting to avoid, above all, ruining her delicate eye makeup. I quickly changed the subject.
  She shook her head. "No. We just didn't connect the way I thought we would. We went out for six months and then broke up."
  Erika shook her head slightly. "No, it's okay. I'm not offended. I just wasn't expecting it. It was all so long ago."
  I looked around the room. People in formal wear were scattered about. Corks popped one after another from expensive bottles of wine. A female pianist was playing "Like Someone in Love."
  She looked down and fingered the pearls on her necklace one by one, as if making sure that they were all still there. She gave a small sigh, perhaps remembering something. "Yes, you're right about that. Aki-kun had a very strong sense of intuition."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Kamita asked Kino to bring over their check, and he laid exact change for his own drink on the counter. Ponytail extracted a ten-thousand-yen bill from his wallet and tossed it onto the table.
  The large man opened the door and stepped outside, Ponytail following behind. Perhaps sensing the tension in the air, the cat, despite the rain, leaped outside after them.
  Kino handed him a fresh towel, and Kamita wiped his head. Then his neck, face, and, finally, both hands. "Thank you. Everything's okay now," he said. "Those two won't be showing their faces here again. They won't bother you anymore."
  Later, as he was leaving, he went to pay the check, but Kino reminded him he had already paid. "Ah, right you are," Kamita said, wryly, then raised the collar of his raincoat, put on his round, brimmed hat, and left.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It was the same when we had sex. She was always playing music in bed. I don't know how many times I heard Percy Faith's "A Summer Place" when we were doing it. It's a little embarrassing to say this, but even now I get pretty aroused whenever I hear that tune—my breathing ragged, my face flushed. You could scour the world and I bet you'd only find one man—me—who gets horny just hearing the intro to "A Summer Place." No—maybe her husband does too. Let's leave that possibility open. You could scour the world and probably find (including me) only two men who get all hot and bothered hearing the intro to "A Summer Place." Let's restate it this way. That'll work.
  Elevator music is another item on the list of things I've lost. The thought hits me each time I go for a drive. While I'm waiting for the light to change, I half hope a girl I've never laid eyes on before will suddenly yank open the passenger door, slip inside, and, without a word or even a glance, jam a cassette with "A Summer Place" into the radio. I've even dreamed about it. Of course, it never happens. I mean, my car doesn't even have a cassette deck anymore. When I drive now, I use an iPod with a USB cable. Gorillaz or the Black Eyed Peas are more like it.
  I hope that M is in heaven now—or somewhere like it—enjoying "A Summer Place." Gently enveloped by that open, boundless music. I just hope there's no Jefferson Airplane playing. (Surely God wouldn't be that cruel.) And it would be nice if, as she listens to the pizzicato violins of "A Summer Place," her thoughts occasionally turn to me. But maybe that's asking too much. I pray that, even if I'm not part of it, M is happy and at peace, with Muzak playing on into eternity.
  As one of the , I pray for this with all my heart. At this point prayer seems like the only thing I can do. Probably.
  Haruki Murakami was born in Kyoto in 1949 and now lives near Tokyo. His work has been translated into more than fifty languages, and the most recent of his many international honors is the Jerusalem Prize, whose previous recipients include J. M. Coetzee, Milan Kundera, and V. S. Naipaul.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Francis, Lai, Strings.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It was the same when we had sex. She was always playing music in bed. I don't know how many times I heard Percy Faith's "A Summer Place" when we were doing it. It's a little embarrassing to say this, but even now I get pretty aroused whenever I hear that tune—my breathing ragged, my face flushed. You could scour the world and I bet you'd only find one man—me—who gets horny just hearing the intro to "A Summer Place. " No—maybe her husband does too. Let's leave that possibility open. You could scour the world and probably find (including me) only two men who get all hot and bothered hearing the intro to "A Summer Place. " Let's restate it this way. That'll work. 
  Elevator music is another item on the list of things I've lost. The thought hits me each time I go for a drive. While I'm waiting for the light to change, I half hope a girl I've never laid eyes on before will suddenly yank open the passenger door, slip inside, and, without a word or even a glance, jam a cassette with "A Summer Place" into the radio. I've even dreamed about it. Of course, it never happens. I mean, my car doesn't even have a cassette deck anymore. When I drive now, I use an iPod with a USB cable. And Francis Lai and 101 Strings are definitely not on my iPod. Gorillaz or the Black Eyed Peas are more like it. 
  I hope that M is in heaven now—or somewhere like it—enjoying "A Summer Place. " Gently enveloped by that open, boundless music. I just hope there's no Jefferson Airplane playing. (Surely God wouldn't be that cruel. ) And it would be nice if, as she listens to the pizzicato violins of "A Summer Place," her thoughts occasionally turn to me. But maybe that's asking too much. I pray that, even if I'm not part of it, M is happy and at peace, with Muzak playing on into eternity. 
  As one of the , I pray for this with all my heart. At this point prayer seems like the only thing I can do. Probably. 
  Haruki Murakami was born in Kyoto in 1949 and now lives near Tokyo. His work has been translated into more than fifty languages, and the most recent of his many international honors is the Jerusalem Prize, whose previous recipients include J. M. Coetzee, Milan Kundera, and V. S. Naipaul.