conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled The Investigation about Investigation, Auschwitz, Frankfurt with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Poetry.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Investigation is a dramatic re-construction of the Frankfurt War Crimes trials, based on the actual evidence given. This testimony concerning Auschwitz and the atrocities which were enacted there has been edited and extracted by the author into a dramatic document that relies solely and completely on the facts for its effectiveness. There is no artistic license, no manipulation of facts and figures, no rearrangement of events for theatrical effect. Nameless witnesses stand and recall their appalling memories of Auschwitz, allowing us to bear witness to their painful and painstaking search for truth and, ultimately, justice. What emerges is a chastening and purging documentary of deeply moving power. The Investigation was premiered on October 19th, 1965, in thirteen theatres in East and West Germany. At the same time, a produced reading was given under Peter Brook at the Aldwych Theatre in London. As with the author' The Marot/Sade, productions have mushroomed throughout the world, effectively consolidating a remarkable literary reputation.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: As with the author' The Marot/Sade, productions have mushroomed throughout the world, effectively consolidating a remarkable literary reputation.. At the same time, a produced reading was given under Peter Brook at the Aldwych Theatre in London. The Investigation was premiered on October 19th, 1965, in thirteen theatres in East and West Germany. What emerges is a chastening and purging documentary of deeply moving power. Nameless witnesses stand and recall their appalling memories of Auschwitz, allowing us to bear witness to their painful and painstaking search for truth and, ultimately, justice. There is no artistic license, no manipulation of facts and figures, no rearrangement of events for theatrical effect. This testimony concerning Auschwitz and the atrocities which were enacted there has been edited and extracted by the author into a dramatic document that relies solely and completely on the facts for its effectiveness.The Investigation is a dramatic re-construction of the Frankfurt War Crimes trials, based on the actual evidence given
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Born, Santa, Argentina with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Investigation'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled The Investigation about Kelly, Oregon with the genre: Children's Books, Science Fiction & Fantasy.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author is a horror and supernatural author. When she isn't writing she enjoys cooking, music and painting. Kelly lives in a small logging town in Oregon with her cat, dog and her two children.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Investigation
  The Investigator was having trouble digesting the list the Guide had just enumerated. He'd been far from suspecting that the Enterprise covered all those areas; it was difficult for him to understand how such a range could be possible. The fleeting sensation that he was going alone to face a body with a thousand heads panicked him.
  The two men were approaching a cone-shaped glass building. The Investigator noticed that the yellow, green, and blue lines turned right, but the red line ended at the conical building's entrance.
  The Investigator thanked the Guide, who then began to climb the stairs. His footfalls resounded as though he were treading on the stone floor of a cathedral. As he progressed, his body dwindled but remained visible, thanks to the transparent steps of azure-hued glass that mounted skyward up the giant spiral.
  The Investigator perused each of these documents conscientiously, telling himself he might thus come to understand by what logic they had been assembled, but that mystery remained completely opaque. Nonetheless, he needed half an hour to read all the words and contemplate all the images presented in the collection, and when he was finished, the Guide had still not come back downstairs.
  The Investigator suddenly clapped his hand to his stomach. A long, gurgling rumble had just shaken his innards. Not surprising. Nothing had gone down his throat since the two heinous rusks he'd consumed that morning, and the previous evening, he hadn't eaten anything at all. Some distance away, behind the first curve of the stairway, he saw what looked like a vending machine. He had two coins left. Could he perhaps find something over there to calm his hunger? He stood up and discovered that because of those blasted chairs, his muscles were totally cramped.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Investigation
  The Investigator was having trouble digesting the list the Guide had just enumerated. He'd been far from suspecting that the Enterprise covered all those areas; it was difficult for him to understand how such a range could be possible. The fleeting sensation that he was going alone to face a body with a thousand heads panicked him.
  The two men were approaching a cone-shaped glass building. The Investigator noticed that the yellow, green, and blue lines turned right, but the red line ended at the conical building's entrance.
  The Investigator thanked the Guide, who then began to climb the stairs. His footfalls resounded as though he were treading on the stone floor of a cathedral. As he progressed, his body dwindled but remained visible, thanks to the transparent steps of azure-hued glass that mounted skyward up the giant spiral.
  The Investigator perused each of these documents conscientiously, telling himself he might thus come to understand by what logic they had been assembled, but that mystery remained completely opaque. Nonetheless, he needed half an hour to read all the words and contemplate all the images presented in the collection, and when he was finished, the Guide had still not come back downstairs.
  The Investigator suddenly clapped his hand to his stomach. A long, gurgling rumble had just shaken his innards. Not surprising. Nothing had gone down his throat since the two heinous rusks he'd consumed that morning, and the previous evening, he hadn't eaten anything at all. Some distance away, behind the first curve of the stairway, he saw what looked like a vending machine. He had two coins left.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: They looked like peasants or workers or day laborers or farmhands from another century, beasts of burden whose bodies, unceasingly subjected to undernourishment and the law of work, were compelled to make do with their meager bones and the bit of flesh that covered them. Everything about the breakfast throng betrayed poverty, indigence, as well as the dread which that condition—no doubt undergone for decades or even centuries—had succeeded in depositing at the deepest level of their every movement, of every look in their eyes, like a genetic trait it's no use struggling against. The same mark, the mark of the downtrodden, was imprinted on each of those creatures. But nothing allowed the observer to identify their origins unequivocally or to name the exact country they came from.
  Most of them were gathered in dense clusters around tables intended to seat four. For lack of room, skinny children sat on the laps of adults scarcely bigger than they were. They were nibbling on rusks the Investigator recognized, rusks identical to the appalling things he'd been obliged to consume the previous morning, and next to them stood little cups of black coffee, scantily filled with a muddy brew the mere memory of which nauseated him. So all those people, every one of them inhumanly thin whatever their age or sex, nevertheless had to subsist on the same starvation diet.
  The Investigator walked over to the table the Server had indicated. Its four chairs were all empty. The other tables in the room, several of them only a few steps away, were occupied by large families, by men, women, and children pressed against one another in the greatest discomfort; the Investigator's table, however, was like a protected reserve, a forbidden island. At the other tables, an average of twenty persons huddled wretchedly in an amount of space equivalent to what he had all to himself. Without looking around too much, the Investigator sat down, lowered his head, and waited.
  He tried in vain to remember ever having heard of this phenomenon. "Displacees"? Of course, he knew that certain movements of populations were part of reality, and he was aware of the attraction his continent held for a great many individuals. But Displacees?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At that point, without knowing why, the Investigator thought about lilacs and their scent. He distinctly saw the pale-purple clusters of their flowers, blooming on a May morning in a distant spring, and he breathed in their pungent, sweet perfume. Then he was on a ship—standing on its prow, to be exact—that was making more than thirty knots; he held the rail with both hands while the sea spray streamed down his face, leaving on his lips the delicious taste of water and salt, and pods of dolphins leaped out of the frothy waves, caressed by the siren song arising from the light-dazzled air. He also saw an infant emerge from its mother's womb, saw the spread thighs, heard the wail coming from the little body, successfully delivered, and watched the mother's tears mingling with the blood and matter of nascent life. He was right in the middle of a dancing crowd, celebrating the return of peace after a war that had claimed millions of victims. He whirled about, was embraced by women who pressed their warm lips to his, saw their laughter, their eyes glittering with joy, and he caressed their hips and their breasts, forgot himself in them, and then, suddenly, everything was gone.
  So what had become of that big, incandescent sun? And that vast plain, with its chalky soil? Was it night at last? The Investigator, unable to make out anything anymore, considered those questions, helplessly aware that his meager remaining strength was leaving him.
  And yet everything had begun so normally. In a train station similar to many other train stations. On a square much like the other such squares that exist innumerably all over the Earth. Inside a bar of the most ordinary sort. Why had everything become so complicated after that? He'd set foot in a town, or in a life. He'd crossed paths with figures, with persons who stood for millions of others. He'd tried to unconfuse the issue, to give things names, to make them simple and clear, to go where he'd been told to go, to do what he'd been told to do. In the very beginning, even the account of events had followed established codes and depended on comforting structures before starting to free itself from them, to let itself go, to saw off the branches on which it had rested for so long, to do its part in bewildering him still more.
  The Shadow was waiting, but the Investigator turned away from him, for he saw ghostly figures coming to greet him as in a ceremony of condolence: silhouettes, ideas, recollections, holograms, fictional characters, among whom he clearly recognized the Policeman, the Giantess, who smiled at him, the Guide, the Manager, the Server, the Security Officer and the Guard, the Child with the burning eyes, the Psychologist, who hung back a little, the Tourists, the Displacees, the Crowd. They all seemed somewhat ill at ease as they spent a few moments in silence before the body of a man of average size, with a round face and a balding pate, a man who resembled them like a brother, who was the victim of a farce in which they'd played their roles without trying very hard to step out of them, because it's more comfortable that way. They had always been well ahead of the Investigator, and so they remained, even if that didn't help them in any way and wouldn't save them.
  In the Investigator's weak, doomed heart, there still trembled one or two mute words, barely formed, before what remained of his consciousness was carried off into the void, like the last puff of a cigarette in the wind. Then everything in him died, the answer to the question, the signs, the traces of light, his memory, his doubts. He thought he heard a slight noise, like the sound made by the lid of a laptop computer when the screen is closed on keys still warm from the fingertips that have caressed them so long.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He thought he heard a slight noise, like the sound made by the lid of a laptop computer when the screen is closed on keys still warm from the fingertips that have caressed them so long. He distinctly saw the pale-purple clusters of their flowers, blooming on a May morning in a distant spring, and he breathed in their pungent, sweet perfume. Then he was on a ship—standing on its prow, to be exact—that was making more than thirty knots; he held the rail with both hands while the sea spray streamed down his face, leaving on his lips the delicious taste of water and salt, and pods of dolphins leaped out of the frothy waves, caressed by the siren song arising from the light-dazzled air. He also saw an infant emerge from its mother's womb, saw the spread thighs, heard the wail coming from the little body, successfully delivered, and watched the mother's tears mingling with the blood and matter of nascent life. He was right in the middle of a dancing crowd, celebrating the return of peace after a war that had claimed millions of victims. He whirled about, was embraced by women who pressed their warm lips to his, saw their laughter, their eyes glittering with joy, and he caressed their hips and their breasts, forgot himself in them, and then, suddenly, everything was gone.
  So what had become of that big, incandescent sun? And that vast plain, with its chalky soil? Was it night at last? The Investigator, unable to make out anything anymore, considered those questions, helplessly aware that his meager remaining strength was leaving him.
  And yet everything had begun so normally. In a train station similar to many other train stations. On a square much like the other such squares that exist innumerably all over the Earth. Inside a bar of the most ordinary sort. Why had everything become so complicated after that? He'd set foot in a town, or in a life. He'd crossed paths with figures, with persons who stood for millions of others. He'd tried to unconfuse the issue, to give things names, to make them simple and clear, to go where he'd been told to go, to do what he'd been told to do. In the very beginning, even the account of events had followed established codes and depended on comforting structures before starting to free itself from them, to let itself go, to saw off the branches on which it had rested for so long, to do its part in bewildering him still more.
  The Shadow was waiting, but the Investigator turned away from him, for he saw ghostly figures coming to greet him as in a ceremony of condolence: silhouettes, ideas, recollections, holograms, fictional characters, among whom he clearly recognized the Policeman, the Giantess, who smiled at him, the Guide, the Manager, the Server, the Security Officer and the Guard, the Child with the burning eyes, the Psychologist, who hung back a little, the Tourists, the Displacees, the Crowd. They all seemed somewhat ill at ease as they spent a few moments in silence before the body of a man of average size, with a round face and a balding pate, a man who resembled them like a brother, who was the victim of a farce in which they'd played their roles without trying very hard to step out of them, because it's more comfortable that way. They had always been well ahead of the Investigator, and so they remained, even if that didn't help them in any way and wouldn't save them.
  In the Investigator's weak, doomed heart, there still trembled one or two mute words, barely formed, before what remained of his consciousness was carried off into the void, like the last puff of a cigarette in the wind. Then everything in him died, the answer to the question, the signs, the traces of light, his memory, his doubts.At that point, without knowing why, the Investigator thought about lilacs and their scent.