conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Fresno, Armenian, American with the genre: Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'This Angelic Land'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: This Angelic Land
  All rights served. No portion of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from West of West Books.
  AT THE HEART OF A STORY like this, The Kurd told me, there should be love—a man and woman, or friends, two people, anyway, who, amid the destruction, find in each other what may be worth dying for, what may even require it. As the city burns, imagine them at the kitchen table with cups of coffee, an atom of intimacy in a galaxy of waste. Watching the ashes drift, they might still speak of another life in another place, certain that if such goodness between two people were possible then all was not lost, even if all might be destroyed.
  Forget that it wasn't 1915, 1934, or 1984. Forget that we were hardly on death marches or stuffed into cattle cars or terror-bound to a chair—no, just the opposite, we were cock-walking pilgrims, each from a different country and caste, supercharged with will. Yes, we were a melancholy distance away from all that was familiar, at an outpost far from home; but each toted his or her best, the very most finely spun and handsomely hewn. There we showed, bartered, bought, and sold, to better store up for the long journey ahead on the magic lantern-lighted road.
  Only in the middle of that sojourn we were forced to stop, such was the commotion over the high fence, stop and stoop and peer through peepholes. In black and white, the monochrome color of the plainest of dreams, several police, batons cocked, surrounded a man prone on the ground with his head vaguely raised. Then the man rose, and a policeman struck him, and the man went down, and then rose again and the policeman struck him again, and again, and with each strike the man rose rather than fell, until another policeman, appalled, put out a hand. "Stop."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They understood, really they did: sometimes those new to business have a hard time taking a contract seriously. Sometimes they rewrite a contract in their own heads, as circumstances change. But all business, eventually, relies upon the soundness of a contract. Without a sound contract, commerce of any sort would grind to a halt: anybody could claim anything anywhere down the road. This is, essentially, what makes America different from other places—the Middle East, for instance. This is why people come to America from other places; because of the soundness of contracts, starting with the most important contract of all, the Constitution. They were so rational, so right, so white, it sent Adam's screaming heart to a corner for a slow bleed. Besides, the money that Nick had invested was his own money, drawn from a trust, not borrowed from them, as Adam had assumed (which was why he'd approached them in the first place). They were hardly in a position to step in. But look, Adam; if you need a loan, for any reason, don't hesitate to come to us. He didn't want a loan. Look----you're young, talented, educated: just getting going.
  But Dad wasn't just getting going! The man felt done, and he needed some help. Adam had come to tell them all this, but with a hundred-percent certainty that it would lead to a lecture about immigrants, how one generation sacrifices for the next, how it had always been that way, he kept his feelings about Dad to himself, thanked them, and left.
  A few days later, Nick called from Croatia to tell him, "looks like someone is shorting me." Not a month had passed that the bar hadn't made more money than it had the month before, but now the sales were evening out. If he'd been around, he would've also discovered that the leather booths, the carpets, and some of the fixtures were wearing out. That the A-listers, who'd worn them out, were taking a drink and moving on. It was going back to being a neighborhood bar, with a neighborhood bar's good but not dazzling profits. Instead, Nick was convinced the bartenders were pocketing cash payments; that the waitresses, in cahoots with the bartenders, were dishing out free drinks to their friends. The bar-backs, in cahoots with the waitresses, were sneaking home with bottles of high-end wine. What, did he have cameras embedded in the rooms? In any case, on the road, he had done some research. A Swiss touch-screen electronic payment system that tracked every pour was on its way. Within a few weeks, fifty thousand dollars worth of it was up and running. Now, strangely, the machine, Adam's enemy, was also his star witness; perversely he hoped profits would drop even further to confirm the downward trend and clear him of any residual suspicion. As it turned out, Nick accepted whatever it spit out with Basho-like equanimity. "What it is is what it is." Gravy enough to pay Adam's salary and net Nick $5,000 or so a month.
  Adam was showing up to work, but he hadn't really been there for at least a year. He had left in one way, but in the other, with nowhere to go he'd stayed behind. That was why he'd talked to Sammy about opening a bar. But he was doing it behind Nick's back; that's why he felt guilty.
  He passed through every room in the house to make sure all the windows were locked, as the light from the chopper thinned, then thickened, then thinned again. The bedroom window, whose screen he had idiotically forgotten to replace, was up. He closed it and quickly jumped into some pants, wondering whether he would have what it took to kill a man. The one-time-commercial-actor's prissy little handgun looked pretty good to him right then. He walked-ran to the kitchen. When you don't have a gun, you go for a knife. Probably a bat or golf club would do the job better, but in the movies a knife, the hillbilly kin of a gun, is what everyone goes for, so that's what Adam went for.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sometimes they rewrite a contract in their own heads, as circumstances change. But all business, eventually, relies upon the soundness of a contract. Without a sound contract, commerce of any sort would grind to a halt: anybody could claim anything anywhere down the road. This is, essentially, what makes America different from other places—the Middle East, for instance. This is why people come to America from other places; because of the soundness of contracts, starting with the most important contract of all, the Constitution. They were so rational, so right, so white, it sent Adam's screaming heart to a corner for a slow bleed. Besides, the money that Nick had invested was his own money, drawn from a trust, not borrowed from them, as Adam had assumed (which was why he'd approached them in the first place). They were hardly in a position to step in. But look, Adam; if you need a loan, for any reason, don't hesitate to come to us. He didn't want a loan. Look----you're young, talented, educated: just getting going.
  But Dad wasn't just getting going! The man felt done, and he needed some help. Adam had come to tell them all this, but with a hundred-percent certainty that it would lead to a lecture about immigrants, how one generation sacrifices for the next, how it had always been that way, he kept his feelings about Dad to himself, thanked them, and left.
  A few days later, Nick called from Croatia to tell him, "looks like someone is shorting me." Not a month had passed that the bar hadn't made more money than it had the month before, but now the sales were evening out. If he'd been around, he would've also discovered that the leather booths, the carpets, and some of the fixtures were wearing out. That the A-listers, who'd worn them out, were taking a drink and moving on. It was going back to being a neighborhood bar, with a neighborhood bar's good but not dazzling profits. Instead, Nick was convinced the bartenders were pocketing cash payments; that the waitresses, in cahoots with the bartenders, were dishing out free drinks to their friends. The bar-backs, in cahoots with the waitresses, were sneaking home with bottles of high-end wine. What, did he have cameras embedded in the rooms? In any case, on the road, he had done some research. A Swiss touch-screen electronic payment system that tracked every pour was on its way. Within a few weeks, fifty thousand dollars worth of it was up and running. Now, strangely, the machine, Adam's enemy, was also his star witness; perversely he hoped profits would drop even further to confirm the downward trend and clear him of any residual suspicion. As it turned out, Nick accepted whatever it spit out with Basho-like equanimity. "What it is is what it is." Gravy enough to pay Adam's salary and net Nick $5,000 or so a month.
  Adam was showing up to work, but he hadn't really been there for at least a year. He had left in one way, but in the other, with nowhere to go he'd stayed behind. That was why he'd talked to Sammy about opening a bar. But he was doing it behind Nick's back; that's why he felt guilty.
  He passed through every room in the house to make sure all the windows were locked, as the light from the chopper thinned, then thickened, then thinned again. The bedroom window, whose screen he had idiotically forgotten to replace, was up. He closed it and quickly jumped into some pants, wondering whether he would have what it took to kill a man. The one-time-commercial-actor's prissy little handgun looked pretty good to him right then. He walked-ran to the kitchen. When you don't have a gun, you go for a knife. Probably a bat or golf club would do the job better, but in the movies a knife, the hillbilly kin of a gun, is what everyone goes for, so that's what Adam went for.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last three paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Kurd said, "There is a brutal truth and beauty in the ruins, no? Their broken bodies reveal something fundamental."
  It was a point of view, of course, that I'd been making my own for years. From Lebanon, or even before I was born, to Armenia, to New York, to Los Angeles, and now the body of my brother, I had been following a virtual trail of ruins for the better part of my life.
  He came up to the painting, dabbed his brush on the palette and made a few strokes on the canvas, and then dabbed again and made a few more strokes. Finally, he stepped back for me to see. "That," he said, "is for you; for you and Adam." On the left and halfway up, he'd painted a horizontal band of sunlight. Still wet, the oil was golden and glistening. But whether the light it provided was coming or going was impossible to say; whether it was breaking on the horizon, or draining away from beneath a door.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "
  It was a point of view, of course, that I'd been making my own for years. From Lebanon, or even before I was born, to Armenia, to New York, to Los Angeles, and now the body of my brother, I had been following a virtual trail of ruins for the better part of my life.
  He came up to the painting, dabbed his brush on the palette and made a few strokes on the canvas, and then dabbed again and made a few more strokes. Finally, he stepped back for me to see. "That," he said, "is for you; for you and Adam." On the left and halfway up, he'd painted a horizontal band of sunlight. Still wet, the oil was golden and glistening. But whether the light it provided was coming or going was impossible to say; whether it was breaking on the horizon, or draining away from beneath a door.