conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Weimar, Faust, Part with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Sufferings of Young Werther'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Sufferings of Young Werther
  In her mind she perused the list of her friends and found something to criticize in each one, found none whom she would have wished on him. Over and above all these considerations, for the first time she felt deeply, yet without making it clear to herself, that the secret longing of her heart was to keep him for herself; and at the same time she told herself that she could not, might not keep him; her pure, beautiful spirit, usually so light and able so easily to manage difficulties, felt the pressure of a melancholy to which the prospect of happiness is barred. Her heart was squeezed tight, and a dark cloud hung over her eyes.
  And so it was half past six when she heard Werther coming up the stairs and soon recognized his step and his voice asking for her. How her heart began to beat, and for the first time, we may almost say, at his approach. She would have preferred to have him told she was not at home, and when he entered the room, she cried out to him in a sort of impassioned confusion: You did not keep your word.—I promised nothing, was his answer.—Then you should at least have granted me my wish, she replied; I asked you for the sake of your peace of mind and my own.
  She wanted to have the maid settle in the next room and do her work there; then she thought differently again. Werther walked up and down the room, she went to the piano and struck up a minuet, but the tune would not flow.
  Do you have nothing to read? she said.—He had nothing.—There in my drawer, she began, is your translation of some of the songs of Ossian. I have not yet read them, I had always hoped to hear them from you; but since then the occasion has never presented itself, nor could I arrange it.—He smiled, he fetched the songs, a tremor went through him as his hands held them, and his eyes filled with tears as he glanced at the pages. He sat back down and read:
  And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of song, grey-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin, with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast? when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Werther, pulled, accustomed.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Sufferings of Young Werther
  In her mind she perused the list of her friends and found something to criticize in each one, found none whom she would have wished on him. Over and above all these considerations, for the first time she felt deeply, yet without making it clear to herself, that the secret longing of her heart was to keep him for herself; and at the same time she told herself that she could not, might not keep him; her pure, beautiful spirit, usually so light and able so easily to manage difficulties, felt the pressure of a melancholy to which the prospect of happiness is barred. Her heart was squeezed tight, and a dark cloud hung over her eyes. 
  And so it was half past six when she heard Werther coming up the stairs and soon recognized his step and his voice asking for her. How her heart began to beat, and for the first time, we may almost say, at his approach. She would have preferred to have him told she was not at home, and when he entered the room, she cried out to him in a sort of impassioned confusion: You did not keep your word. —I promised nothing, was his answer. —Then you should at least have granted me my wish, she replied; I asked you for the sake of your peace of mind and my own. 
  She wanted to have the maid settle in the next room and do her work there; then she thought differently again. Werther walked up and down the room, she went to the piano and struck up a minuet, but the tune would not flow. She pulled herself together and sat down calmly next to Werther, who had taken his accustomed place on the settee. 
  Do you have nothing to read? she said. —He had nothing. —There in my drawer, she began, is your translation of some of the songs of Ossian. I have not yet read them, I had always hoped to hear them from you; but since then the occasion has never presented itself, nor could I arrange it. —He smiled, he fetched the songs, a tremor went through him as his hands held them, and his eyes filled with tears as he glanced at the pages. He sat back down and read:
  And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of song, grey-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin, with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast? when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The full force of these words fell upon the unhappy man. He threw himself down before Lotte in complete despair, grasped her hands, pressed them to his eyes, to his brow, and a foreboding of his terrible resolve appeared to fly through her soul. Her senses became confused, she squeezed his hands, pressed them against her breast, bent over him with a plaintive gesture, and their glowing cheeks touched. The world faded from them. He flung his arms around her, pressed her to his breast, and covered her trembling, stammering lips with furious kisses.—Werther! she cried in a choked voice, turning away, Werther!—and with a weak hand pushed his breast away from hers;—Werther! she cried in the collected tone of the loftiest feeling.—He did not resist, released her from his arms, and, insensate, threw himself down before her.—She tore herself upward, and in anxious confusion, trembling between love and fury, she said—This is the last time! Werther! You will never see me again.—And with the fullest look of love at the wretched man, she hurried into the next room and locked the door behind her. Werther stretched out his arms to her, did not dare to restrain her. He lay on the floor, his head on the settee, and remained in this position for more than half an hour, until a noise restored him to himself. It was the maid wanting to set the table. He walked up and down the room, and when he found himself alone again, he went to the door of the little room and called in a low voice—Lotte! Lotte! only one word more! A farewell!—She was silent. He waited and pleaded and waited; then he tore himself away, crying: Farewell, Lotte! Farewell forever!
  He came to the city gate. The watchmen, who knew him, let him go out without a word. A mix of rain and snow was whirling, and it was nearly eleven o'clock when he knocked at the gate again. He did not venture to comment, helped him off with his clothes, which were soaked through. Only much later was the hat found on a crag that overlooks the valley from the slope of the hill, and it is beyond understanding how he could have climbed it on a wet and gloomy night without plunging down.
  He went to bed and slept for a long time. His servant found him writing when, the following morning, on responding to his call, he brought him coffee. Werther added the following to his letter to Lotte:
  For the last time, then, for the last time I open these eyes. They shall not, alas, see the sun again, a dismal, foggy day keeps it overcast. Then mourn, Nature! your son, your friend, your beloved approaches his end. Lotte, it is a feeling without compare, and yet it is most like a dozing dream to say to yourself: This is the final morning. Final! Lotte, I have no understanding of this word—final! Do I not stand here in all my vigor, and tomorrow I will lie sprawled out and limp on the ground. To die! what does that mean? See, we are dreaming when we speak of death. I have seen more than one person die; but mankind is so limited that it cannot conceive of the beginning and end of its existence. Now still mine, yours! yours, oh beloved! And one instant—parted, separated—perhaps forever?—No, Lotte, no—How can I pass away? How can you pass away? We are, yes!—pass away!—what does that mean? That is merely another phrase! an empty noise, which my heart cannot feel. Dead, Lotte! buried in haste in the cold ground, so narrow! so gloomy!—I had a friend, a woman, who was everything to me in my vulnerable youth; she died, and I walked behind her dead body and stood at her grave as they lowered her coffin and yanked away the creaking ropes from underneath and drew them up again; then the first shovelful of clods rolled down, and the dreaded box gave back a dull thud, and duller and duller, and finally it was covered!—I threw myself down beside the grave—my innermost being stirred, appalled, terrified, torn, but I did not know what was happening to me—what will happen to me—To die! Grave! I do not understand these words!
  Oh, forgive me! forgive me! Yesterday! It should have been the last instant of my life. Oh you angel! For the first time, for the first time without any doubts, a blissful feeling glowed in the innermost depths of my being: She loves me! she loves me! my lips still burn with the sacred fire that streamed from yours; a new, warm rapture is in my heart. Forgive me! forgive me!
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Werther's, missing.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The full force of these words fell upon the unhappy man. He threw himself down before Lotte in complete despair, grasped her hands, pressed them to his eyes, to his brow, and a foreboding of his terrible resolve appeared to fly through her soul. Her senses became confused, she squeezed his hands, pressed them against her breast, bent over him with a plaintive gesture, and their glowing cheeks touched. The world faded from them. He flung his arms around her, pressed her to his breast, and covered her trembling, stammering lips with furious kisses. —Werther! she cried in a choked voice, turning away, Werther!—and with a weak hand pushed his breast away from hers;—Werther! she cried in the collected tone of the loftiest feeling. —He did not resist, released her from his arms, and, insensate, threw himself down before her. —She tore herself upward, and in anxious confusion, trembling between love and fury, she said—This is the last time! Werther! You will never see me again. —And with the fullest look of love at the wretched man, she hurried into the next room and locked the door behind her. Werther stretched out his arms to her, did not dare to restrain her. He lay on the floor, his head on the settee, and remained in this position for more than half an hour, until a noise restored him to himself. It was the maid wanting to set the table. He walked up and down the room, and when he found himself alone again, he went to the door of the little room and called in a low voice—Lotte! Lotte! only one word more! A farewell!—She was silent. He waited and pleaded and waited; then he tore himself away, crying: Farewell, Lotte! Farewell forever!
  He came to the city gate. The watchmen, who knew him, let him go out without a word. A mix of rain and snow was whirling, and it was nearly eleven o'clock when he knocked at the gate again. His servant noticed, on Werther's return home, that his master's hat was missing. He did not venture to comment, helped him off with his clothes, which were soaked through. Only much later was the hat found on a crag that overlooks the valley from the slope of the hill, and it is beyond understanding how he could have climbed it on a wet and gloomy night without plunging down. 
  He went to bed and slept for a long time. His servant found him writing when, the following morning, on responding to his call, he brought him coffee. Werther added the following to his letter to Lotte:
  For the last time, then, for the last time I open these eyes. They shall not, alas, see the sun again, a dismal, foggy day keeps it overcast. Then mourn, Nature! your son, your friend, your beloved approaches his end. Lotte, it is a feeling without compare, and yet it is most like a dozing dream to say to yourself: This is the final morning. Final! Lotte, I have no understanding of this word—final! Do I not stand here in all my vigor, and tomorrow I will lie sprawled out and limp on the ground. To die! what does that mean? See, we are dreaming when we speak of death. I have seen more than one person die; but mankind is so limited that it cannot conceive of the beginning and end of its existence. Now still mine, yours! yours, oh beloved! And one instant—parted, separated—perhaps forever?—No, Lotte, no—How can I pass away? How can you pass away? We are, yes!—pass away!—what does that mean? That is merely another phrase! an empty noise, which my heart cannot feel. Dead, Lotte! buried in haste in the cold ground, so narrow! so gloomy!—I had a friend, a woman, who was everything to me in my vulnerable youth; she died, and I walked behind her dead body and stood at her grave as they lowered her coffin and yanked away the creaking ropes from underneath and drew them up again; then the first shovelful of clods rolled down, and the dreaded box gave back a dull thud, and duller and duller, and finally it was covered!—I threw myself down beside the grave—my innermost being stirred, appalled, terrified, torn, but I did not know what was happening to me—what will happen to me—To die! Grave! I do not understand these words!
  Oh, forgive me! forgive me! Yesterday! It should have been the last instant of my life. Oh you angel! For the first time, for the first time without any doubts, a blissful feeling glowed in the innermost depths of my being: She loves me! she loves me! my lips still burn with the sacred fire that streamed from yours; a new, warm rapture is in my heart. Forgive me! forgive me!
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When the physician came to the wretched man, he found him on the ground, beyond saving, there was a beating pulse, all his limbs were paralyzed. He had shot himself in the forehead above his right eye, his brain was extruded. A vein in his arm had been opened unnecessarily, the blood ran, his breath was still coming in gasps. From the blood on the back of the armchair it could be inferred that he had accomplished the deed while sitting at the desk, had then slumped over and thrown himself convulsively around the chair. He lay feebly on his back, against the window, he was fully dressed, his boots on and wearing a blue dress coat with a yellow waistcoat.
  The house, the neighborhood, the town were thrown into an uproar. Albert arrived. They had laid Werther on the bed and bandaged his forehead; his face already a dead man's, he did not move a muscle. His lungs still rattled frightfully, now with a weaker, now with a stronger sound; his end was expected at any moment. He had drunk no more than one glass of the wine. Lessing's Emilia Galotti, its pages opened, lay on the desk.
  The old District Officer came rushing in on hearing the news, with the hottest tears he kissed the dying man. His older sons, coming on foot, arrived soon after, they fell to the floor by the side of the bed with expressions of the most unrestrained grief, kissed his hands and his mouth, and the eldest, whom Werther had always loved best, clung to his lips until Werther had passed away and the lad was torn from him by force. Werther died at noon. The presence of the District Officer and his measures averted a riot. That night, just before eleven, he had him buried at the spot Werther had chosen. The old man walked behind the body, as did his sons; Albert was unable to. They feared for Lotte's life. Workmen carried him. No clergyman attended.