conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Milan, Library, Up-Mia with the genre: Teen & Young Adult, Literature & Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Demon Catchers of Milan'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Demon Catchers of Milan
  I knew when he said "recently" he could mean anytime in the last couple hundred years; I'd even started to think that way myself.
  He waited. I'd gotten used to this over the last few months. Neither he nor his grandson ever liked to do my thinking for me. I suppose I should have been grateful, but it always made a place behind my eyebrows ache.
  I thought of the smell of stagnant water in my mind the night Tommaso Strozzi had dropped by, the night I had seen the candle go out. I shivered suddenly, thinking about Lisetta Maria Umberti's face, so still in death. Was the underworld where she had gone?
  I was still thinking about Nonno's words when I climbed into bed that night. A wife and mother? At sixteen? A witch, a nun? It was so hard to imagine.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: four more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: My cousins nodded, and so did I. Uncle Matteo got up with a grunt and went out on the balcony to light a cigarillo. Emilio moved to a chair and leaned back, running a hand through his curls. Anna Maria asked, "Can I see what's on?" and got a nod from Nonna.
  She settled on a Roberto Benigni film that was halfway through. I wasn't the only one who kept glancing at the clock. The second hand ticked round and round, but the minute and hour hands seemed to stay in the same place. Then, somehow, they moved, and it was midnight.
  He glanced down at me once, smiling slightly. At least this time, he got to see me dressed entirely in black. I looked good, I thought, though not as stunning as Emilio and Anna Maria.
  The older man kissed Nonno and Uncle Matteo on both cheeks, and I understood that he was Rinaldo Tedesco, Bernardo's father.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I remembered myself and pulled myself off the scaffolding and onto the balcony, feeling it creak under my weight.
  He took the key from his pocket. It was so small it would have slipped through the floorboards if he had dropped it. Thankfully, he didn't.
  I hadn't thought about it when Emilio had fitted the lock, but I found that now I wanted a big, ponderous lock, with a large, clanking piece of iron for a key. I wanted a lock that would keep in the dead.
  I wanted it even more when Nonno began to recite the transliterated Akkadian poem, the words soft, then crunchy, then sonorous by turns: the chant of a goddess as she stood before the portals of the Land of the Dead. Earlier, I'd seen the translation.
  I shivered, staring at the plain wooden door with its iron fittings and silver nails, the tiny silver lock beneath a battered brass knob, and just for a moment I felt farther from home than I ever had in my life. Then Giuliano reached forward, fitting the key in the lock while he went on reciting the commands of the ancient Queen of Heaven.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Then Giuliano reached forward, fitting the key in the lock while he went on reciting the commands of the ancient Queen of Heaven.
  He took the key from his pocket. It was so small it would have slipped through the floorboards if he had dropped it. Thankfully, he didn't.
  I hadn't thought about it when Emilio had fitted the lock, but I found that now I wanted a big, ponderous lock, with a large, clanking piece of iron for a key. I wanted a lock that would keep in the dead.
  I wanted it even more when Nonno began to recite the transliterated Akkadian poem, the words soft, then crunchy, then sonorous by turns: the chant of a goddess as she stood before the portals of the Land of the Dead. Earlier, I'd seen the translation.
  I shivered, staring at the plain wooden door with its iron fittings and silver nails, the tiny silver lock beneath a battered brass knob, and just for a moment I felt farther from home than I ever had in my life.I remembered myself and pulled myself off the scaffolding and onto the balcony, feeling it creak under my weight.