conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'The Dervish House'
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Dervish House
  Ayşe follows Burak up through time. It is a lovely bottle: a 2022 Madiran, standing on Burak's gargantuan Ottoman-era desk. Burak produces a dusty glass from a drawer and wipes it with a handkerchief. He takes the swivel chair, Ayşe the old rocker. Madiran is shared.
  Frantic Beyazit Square has surrendered to the heat, its crowds driven into shade and down alleys and soks under the shadows of balconies and leaning walls. The step through the arch of the mosque gate into the courtyard is a step across worlds and times. The growl of the street is pushed away. Adnan can hear the water dripping from the brass faucets into the marble trough of the fountain at the centre of the court. The cloisters are deep and domed, shaded and sheltering. The marble invites the touch of bare feet. Suddenly crazy in the heat and the escape from it and the excitement of the deal, Adnan kicks off his handmade shoes and peels off his socks. Half-millennium-old marble under his soles. Geological reflexology.
  The marble beneath Adnan's feet is suddenly ice cold, clammy as corpse skin. The courtyard, the colonnades and fountain and the cascade of domes, a waterfall in stone from the crescent moon finial of the mosque, all sway and swoon. Bare feet are very bare, very silly, very exposed.
  On a Third Date you're allowed a refusal—only one, you don't want to look like a whiner—to show that you're not a complete pussy. He should have held onto it. I don't do cinemas, but I do installations even less.
  The art students weren't as good-looking as he'd expected, but they handed them each a laser pointer and told them to spread out through the stalls. There were already a few dozen scattered across the auditorium, crouching down in the rows, behind the curtains, the speakers, the sound baffles.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: three more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Beskardes raises his eyebrows. Murmurs around the horseshoe of delegates. Saltuk fidgets and frets, trying to find an excuse to cut Georgios short. The insouciant jackdaw is nowhere to be seen.
  Ogün Saltuk can't speak. There is a cognitive discontinuity here. He is being shown that he does not understand his own theory.
  Saltuk blusters about sessions running overtime and hastily calls another coffee break to try to regain a measure of composure, but everyone knows what has been done here and that the Kadiköy Group is finished. All around the salon small groups have spontaneously formed, talking nano, dissecting Georgios's Great Leap Forward, debating the neurochemistry of faith. Ogün Saltuk stands apart at the window, isolated, insulated by a coterie of MIT staffers. There is no need for Georgios to be here. He would slip away quietly, but Emrah Beskardes catches him at the top of the faux-rococo staircase.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There are many quiets in the garden. Necdet Hasgüler sits on the rim of the fountain catching different quiets like butterflies. There is the quiet of insulation; how the soft, organic woodwork of the dervish house reduces the growl of the city to a murmur. Stone and concrete reflect; wood absorbs. There is the quiet of small things; the trickle of water from the fountain, the soft pad of the lizard that lives in the fountain's base, the bird that stoops down to perch on the gallery eaves, examines him with one eye, then the other, then flies away again. There is the quiet of being; the dark wooden pillars of the cloister, the blue and white tiles, the marble of the ablutions fountain, the smells of water and old sun-bleached wood and earth and greenery. There is the quiet of absence: no people, no voices, no words, no needings or questions. There is the quiet of presence: no one in the tiny garden but Necdet and the Green Saint.
  That was when the doctor had told Necdet the story of Şams of Tabriz. As God wills. These things turn. As his brother brought him to safety, helped him, cared for him, now he will help Ismet. The brotherhood is strong, but men are stupid when they band together. The street shariat is strong and it can be a great good, but their work could easily spin apart through rivalry or dogmatism. If Ismet calls him a shaykh, then a true shaykh he will be. Shaykh Necdet. The whirl is in everything
  The perfume of verdure in the little garden is suddenly heady, dizzying. Tomorrow Necdet will go back to Başibüyük, to his family, to his sister, and try to put right his old wrongs. Tonight, the evening azan has broken out from the loudspeakers of the Tulip Mosque. The dervish house accepts the sound; the invocation of the call to prayer swirls in the enclosed air of the tekke garden, swells and ebbs. He might go and pray.
  This is the azan calling ikindi from the minarets of three thousand mosques of Istanbul. This is a stork spiralling up on the thermals high above the corporate towers of Levent and Maslak. This is an atom of carbon bonded to four hydrogen atoms; star-forged, hurtling through the gas pipeline beneath the Bosphorus towards Europe. This is a Mellified Man, sleeping on a bed of honey until the trumpet of Israfil wakes him. This is three men dead and cold in an army morgue. This is the Little Virgin of the St. Pantaleimon's spreading her protecting veil over the twenty million souls of Europe's greatest city. This is lovers in a rented room washed by the sound of the sea. This is the Storm of the Turning Windmills, singing in the lines of the skysails, licking the water of the Bosphorus to restless cat-tongues. This is the secret name of God, written across Istanbul in letters too great and yet too small to be comprehended. This is the stir of djinn and rememberings, which are not as different as humans think, in the twilight of Adem Dede Square, outside the old dervish house. This is the turn, this is the whirl, this is the dance that is woven into every particle of the universe. This is the laughter of Hızır the Green Saint. This is Istanbul, Queen of Cities, and she will endure as long as human hearts beat upon the earth.