conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Daniel, Holocaust, Reed with the genre: Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Catastrophist'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first three paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Catastrophist
  Oh, talk about us, please, not the politics of this absurd place, anything but that. What is wrong with us cannot be recomposed so easily, so quickly. It will take more than an afternoon in bed. Talk about us, Inès, and what the future will be.
  She talks instead about Patrice. He is too trusting of the Belgians, apparently. Like the other delegates he was thrilled to be in Brussels. He thought he was being treated as an equal, meeting ministers, meeting the king; all the misunderstandings of the past had been cleared up. He and the others were so proud of having won independence, they didn't think about the details—and the details, she insists, are very bad.
  She starts to slip down in the bed, overtaken by tiredness. I kiss her gently on the lips. She raises a hand. I clasp it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide another paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I got off the bed and went into the shower. Madeleine looked at me in surprise. She glanced down at my cock and smiled. "So soon?" she said, amused. Without another word, she slowly turned her back on me and spread her palms against the white tiles to steady herself. As I fucked her I saw Auguste's face where Justin's was. I saw him dead, mutilated, bleeding. I started to say, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you." I went on and on. I was shouting at Auguste, I was shouting at Inès. Madeleine was groaning. She was bent fully over, squashed into a corner, contorted, pressed against the tiles, the water running off her back and broad, strong shoulders. There were little juddering, rippling movements in the flesh of her backside as I rammed against her. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We settle in our chairs in front of the television. Brick-strewn streets, burned-out cars, gutted buildings, milk bottles filled with petrol, youths with scarves around the nose and mouth, rioters, refugees, police, soldiers. He is transfixed.
  I help him aboard with his luggage and we shake hands. Alan has his ambitions, he can sometimes be pompous, but he is a good man. I am sad now that he is going.
  I do not feel like working when I go back to the apartment. Instead I walk up Via Medail, over the bridge and along Via Modane, following my favorite route. I pass the ruined tower and the old stone farmstead with its garden of nettles and its caved-in roof and mossy gray timbers. I walk through the woods and up the rocky slopes where the scree underfoot has the tinkle of broken glass.
  There is no one on the mountain. I am here, safe in my anomie. There is only the screech of the kites, the barking deer and the quiet work of the meltwater. I think I must leave this place and not come back.