conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled In Concert Performance about Lukary, Lukary's, Anna with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: This brilliant Russian satire, translated into English for the first time since its publication in Moscow in 1995, and soon to be in print in nine different languages, seems destined to make its author an international literary figure. The narrative dances around an angel called Lukary. Charged with arrogance and disrespect by the heavenly Department of Light Powers, he is given a chance to atone by being sent to live in 1990s Russia. His superiors direct the dashing Lukary to live as a domovoi, or hearth spirit, in the home of Kovalevskaya, an unremarkable, cantankerous widow of a Communist functionary. As chance would have it, when the old woman dies and Lukary's term of punishment is over, Lukary falls in love with Kovalevskaya's niece, Anna, who inherits the apartment. Anna, a TV news director, is married to Sergei, a stuffy physicist, and Lukary's whirlwind assault brings chaos into both their lives. Promptly forgetting his celestial responsibilities, Lukary interferes with the passage of time, traveling back to the 1930s in order to be with another incarnation of Anna. In a bizarre kaleidoscopic twist, characters with familiar names acquire new identities, and in the midst of it all, LukaryAnow LukinAamuses himself concocting a plan to vanquish Stalin. Meanwhile, Serpina, a senior privy councilor in the Department of Dark Powers, attempts to foil Lukary's every step, their battles fought mainly in philosophical debates. For the most part, Serpina lets people foil themselves, remarking, "On earth there's no person who would not thirst for personal happiness before striving for enlightenment and ascent to Him." A spectacular cast of characters and an elaborate series of settings are spun into a dazzling story reminiscent of Marquez or Bulgakov. Moscow resident the author, himself a man of many incarnations (novelist, physicist, international economics specialist), has fabricated an utterly convincing fantastical world. Rights sold in France, Norway, Germany, Spain, Portugal, Brazil, Holland, Greece, Italy and Poland; international launch at Frankfurt. (Oct.) <BR>Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In Concert Performance
  The door squeaked and Lukin looked up. Lucy stood there, wearing a full skirt and gaudy short jacket. Her straight hair was held back with a comb, revealing a painfully beautiful face, pale to the point of blueness. It was as if someone had intentionally wiped all the color from it, likening it to a white canvas on which a portrait of a woman was still to be painted. But some of the portrait's features already showed through—the large feverishly glowing eyes.
  Lukin picked up a pack of cigarettes from the mattress and offered it to her. For some reason she smelled the cigarette before she lit it. "French." She sank back and blew a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "Look there in the proletarian's stuff," she requested, pointing a long finger with a blood-red nail at the chiffonier. "He always has something to drink. If they're not drunks, then every last one of them's a greedy boor."
  Lukin bent down, fumbled in a corner of a sliding drawer, and pulled out a bottle of vodka sealed with wax. Lucy handed him a cup with a broken handle that was standing nearby.
  Lukin saw that she was getting drunk fast—a smooth and half-contemptuous smile appeared on her beautiful lips.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The guard shifted his weight to his right leg and moved as if to take the object being held out to him, but Lukin let go of the chisel and dealt a quick blow to his throat with the edge of his hand. The man began to wheeze, his eyes rolled back, his sunburned face turned a sickly blue. Lukin caught the lifeless body, dragged it to one side, and pushed it behind the curtain. He went back to the stage and looked around. No one was there. Crossing the stage floor quietly, he went to the recess under the staircase and stepped under the planks. There was a smell of warmed oil paint. The voices of the actors seemed to be very near to the plywood partition; he recognized Mansurova, who played the role of Shura. Working with the chisel, Lukin lifted off the board on the support of the frame and pulled out the rifle. The touch of the weapon calmed him. He unwrapped the canvas, gently seated a cartridge in the barrel without making a sound, and pulled the knot plug out of the board. A blinding bright light hit his eyes and he blinked. On Dmitriev's orders they had installed a lamp on the edge of the stage and its light aimed directly below the staircase. Lukin could hardly make out the dark pit of the orchestra behind this wall of light, not to mention the theater boxes behind it. He cursed. His heart was thumping in his chest like a bell, blood pounded in his temples. Right near him Shchukin was speaking Bulychov's words: "What do you think? Will I die?"
  Trying to keep the sharpness of his sight, Lukin narrowed his eyes, so as not to look directly into the light from the lamp. In the wings where the immobile guard was resting, voices could be heard.
  Lukin knew that after this came Bulychov's last lines in the first act and the curtain would fall. Placing the rim of the silencer on the edge of the opening, he directed the barrel toward the invisible target and pressed more tightly against the support.
  The voices at the far end of the stage grew louder; Lukin knew they had found the guard's body. In the meantime Glafira, whom he couldn't see, drifted along the stage toward the footlights, her skirts shielding the light that had been in his eyes, and at the very same moment Lukin could clearly make out the two silhouettes in the box. He chose the left one, the one who was smaller, with the large head on narrow shoulders, and gently pulled the trigger. A dull shot rang out. The man in the box jerked and began to collapse to the side. As if respectfully accompanying him with the sight on his gun, Lukin moved very slightly and shot a second time. The next moment Shchukin, who was moving across the stage, covered up his target. He continued playing his part, not paying any attention to the unusual noise.
  Something heavy fell onto Lukin's head from behind; his arms went limp on their own and let go of the rifle. A bright ray of light suddenly shot through the small hole, it curved and started to float the way everything around him was floating. Lukin took a step backward, trying to keep himself on his feet, but his legs no longer obeyed him and he fell onto the smooth, warm boards of the stage floor. That feeling of smoothness and warmth was the last thing—a moment later the world no longer existed for Lukin.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The guard shifted his weight to his right leg and moved as if to take the object being held out to him, but Lukin let go of the chisel and dealt a quick blow to his throat with the edge of his hand. The man began to wheeze, his eyes rolled back, his sunburned face turned a sickly blue. Lukin caught the lifeless body, dragged it to one side, and pushed it behind the curtain. He went back to the stage and looked around. No one was there. Crossing the stage floor quietly, he went to the recess under the staircase and stepped under the planks. There was a smell of warmed oil paint. The voices of the actors seemed to be very near to the plywood partition; he recognized Mansurova, who played the role of Shura. Working with the chisel, Lukin lifted off the board on the support of the frame and pulled out the rifle. The touch of the weapon calmed him. He unwrapped the canvas, gently seated a cartridge in the barrel without making a sound, and pulled the knot plug out of the board. A blinding bright light hit his eyes and he blinked. On Dmitriev's orders they had installed a lamp on the edge of the stage and its light aimed directly below the staircase. Lukin could hardly make out the dark pit of the orchestra behind this wall of light, not to mention the theater boxes behind it. He cursed. His heart was thumping in his chest like a bell, blood pounded in his temples. Right near him Shchukin was speaking Bulychov's words: "What do you think? Will I die?"
  Trying to keep the sharpness of his sight, Lukin narrowed his eyes, so as not to look directly into the light from the lamp. In the wings where the immobile guard was resting, voices could be heard.
  Lukin knew that after this came Bulychov's last lines in the first act and the curtain would fall. Placing the rim of the silencer on the edge of the opening, he directed the barrel toward the invisible target and pressed more tightly against the support.
  The voices at the far end of the stage grew louder; Lukin knew they had found the guard's body. In the meantime Glafira, whom he couldn't see, drifted along the stage toward the footlights, her skirts shielding the light that had been in his eyes, and at the very same moment Lukin could clearly make out the two silhouettes in the box. He chose the left one, the one who was smaller, with the large head on narrow shoulders, and gently pulled the trigger. A dull shot rang out. The man in the box jerked and began to collapse to the side. As if respectfully accompanying him with the sight on his gun, Lukin moved very slightly and shot a second time. The next moment Shchukin, who was moving across the stage, covered up his target. He continued playing his part, not paying any attention to the unusual noise.
  Something heavy fell onto Lukin's head from behind; his arms went limp on their own and let go of the rifle. A bright ray of light suddenly shot through the small hole, it curved and started to float the way everything around him was floating. Lukin took a step backward, trying to keep himself on his feet, but his legs no longer obeyed him and he fell onto the smooth, warm boards of the stage floor.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A sardonic smile appeared on Yevsei's swollen face. "Another mirage? Let fools be blessed—it's easy for them in this world because they live in a realm of fantasy! Thus are we cast about between future castles in the air and the cemetery of yesterday's hopes."
  Doors... why does life have so many doors? How nice it would be to find one that would open to the enchanting garden of child-hood, the old Moscow courtyard where you are loved and people wait for you and Yevsei is sitting on the fence, eating an apple and making faces at you... But, alas, there are no doors like that in adult life. You keep on opening the other ones; you open them and behind them find the same thing, and you really don't want to go in, but you have to—the door's open. Lukin looked at the number of the apartment on the expensive fake-leather wrap over the door and checked it with the address on his piece of paper. His whole life had been this way—he sighed and pressed the buzzer.
  Lukin felt a jolt in his chest from something powerful and as inescapable as fate. He swayed and closed his eyes, and when he opened them the woman was still looking at him with delight.
  Lucy stepped over the threshold like a child rejoicing at a present and ran her hand across his cheek.
  When he was on the street again, Lukin took a deep breath. An enormous white moon flooded the world with its silver light, a soft warm breeze stirred the leaves, and the black lace of shadows quivered on the ground. The bitter smell of early fall crept into his soul and woke his memories. It seemed it had all happened before: on a warm evening like this he had embraced a woman and together they flew through time and other worlds to where a distant star beamed an emerald light. And now, without warning, everything burst—and an incomparable longing swept over him, a passionate longing to live, shattering his thoughts and filling the entire world...
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "Another mirage? Let fools be blessed—it's easy for them in this world because they live in a realm of fantasy! Thus are we cast about between future castles in the air and the cemetery of yesterday's hopes."
  Doors... why does life have so many doors? How nice it would be to find one that would open to the enchanting garden of child-hood, the old Moscow courtyard where you are loved and people wait for you and Yevsei is sitting on the fence, eating an apple and making faces at you... But, alas, there are no doors like that in adult life. You keep on opening the other ones; you open them and behind them find the same thing, and you really don't want to go in, but you have to—the door's open. Lukin looked at the number of the apartment on the expensive fake-leather wrap over the door and checked it with the address on his piece of paper. His whole life had been this way—he sighed and pressed the buzzer.
  Lukin felt a jolt in his chest from something powerful and as inescapable as fate. He swayed and closed his eyes, and when he opened them the woman was still looking at him with delight.
  Lucy stepped over the threshold like a child rejoicing at a present and ran her hand across his cheek.
  When he was on the street again, Lukin took a deep breath. An enormous white moon flooded the world with its silver light, a soft warm breeze stirred the leaves, and the black lace of shadows quivered on the ground. The bitter smell of early fall crept into his soul and woke his memories. It seemed it had all happened before: on a warm evening like this he had embraced a woman and together they flew through time and other worlds to where a distant star beamed an emerald light. And now, without warning, everything burst—and an incomparable longing swept over him, a passionate longing to live, shattering his thoughts and filling the entire world...