conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Satisfaction, Insatiable, Readers with the genre: Children's Books, Growing Up & Facts of Life
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'In the Woods'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled In the Woods about Daniel, Dolz, GOLDEN with the genre: Children's Books, Holidays & Celebrations.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author and Daniel Dolz are GOLDEN COSMOS. Their work has been exhibited and awarded internationally. They live in Berlin, Germany.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.. End with the sentence '"'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In the Woods
  On my way out of the courthouse I saw Jonathan Devlin, leaning against the wall and smoking. He was holding the cigarette close against his chest, tilting his head back to watch the gulls wheeling over the river. I got my smokes out of my coat and joined him.
  He shrugged heavily. "Much as you'd expect. Jessica tried to kill herself. Went to bed and cut her wrists with my razor."
  One corner of his mouth twitched in a humorless smile. "Yeah. Luckily she made a balls of it: cut across instead of down, or some such."
  I lit my cigarette, cupping my hand around the flame—it was a windy day, purplish clouds starting to gather. "Can I ask you a question?" I said. "Strictly off the record?"
  He said nothing for a long time, so long that I wondered if he was going to ignore the question. Eventually he sighed and said, "Not knew. She couldn't have done it herself, she was with her cousins, and I didn't know anything about this lad Damien. But I wondered. I've known Rosalind all her life. I wondered."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.. End with the sentence '"
  Rocketing through the house to the kitchen, my mother hoovering somewhere upstairs—"Mam! Jamie's staying, can I take stuff for a picnic?" as I grabbed three packets of crisps and a half-package of custard creams and shoved them up my T-shirt—then out the door again, waving to my mother's startled face on the landing, and one-handed over the wall.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Jamie's door slammed open and she shot out like she had been fired from a cannon, her mother calling after her with a rueful smile in her voice and the door ricocheting shut with a bang and the Carmichaels' horrible Jack Russell exploding into high-pitched inbred hysteria. Peter and I sat up. Jamie skidded to a halt at her gate, head whipping round to look for us, and when we shouted to her she raced down the path, leaped over Peter's garden wall and tumbled flat on the grass with an arm hooked round each of our necks, bringing us down with her. We were all yelling at the same time and it took a few seconds before I figured out what Jamie was shouting: "I'm staying! I'm staying! I don't have to go!"
  The summer came to life. It burst from gray to fierce blue and gold in the blink of an eye; the air pealed with grasshoppers and lawnmowers, swirled with branches and bees and dandelion seeds, it was soft and sweet as whipped cream, and over the wall the wood was calling us in the loudest of silent voices, it was shaking out all its best treasures to welcome us home. Summer tossed out a fountain of ivy tendrils, caught us straight under the breastbones and tugged; summer, redeemed and unfurling in front of us, a million years long.
  Jamie ran out of words, so she pushed me over. I grabbed her arm, got on top of her and gave her a Chinese burn. There was a huge grin straight across my face, and I was so happy that I thought it would never come off again.
  Peter was on his feet. "We have to celebrate. Picnic in the castle. Go home and get stuff and meet there."
  Rocketing through the house to the kitchen, my mother hoovering somewhere upstairs—"Mam! Jamie's staying, can I take stuff for a picnic?" as I grabbed three packets of crisps and a half-package of custard creams and shoved them up my T-shirt—then out the door again, waving to my mother's startled face on the landing, and one-handed over the wall.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last three paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He shrugged, eyebrows jumping. I tipped the object into his hand. "Thank you for showing it to me," I said.
  I lit a cigarette of my own and watched them working. The metal object had left slender red marks across my palm. Two little kids, maybe eight or nine, were balancing on their stomachs across the estate wall; the workmen waved their arms and shouted over the roar of machinery till the kids disappeared, but a minute or two later they were back again. The protesters put up umbrellas and handed around sandwiches. I watched for a long time, until my mobile began vibrating insistently in my pocket and the rain started to come down more heavily, and then I put out my cigarette and buttoned my coat and headed back to the car.
  I've taken a number of liberties with the workings of the Garda Síochána, the Irish police force. To pick the most obvious example, there is no Murder squad in Ireland—in 1997 various units were amalgamated to form the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, which assists local officers in investigating serious crimes, including murder—but the story seemed to require one. I owe David Walsh special thanks for helping me with a wild variety of questions about police procedure. All inaccuracies are mine and not his.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He shrugged, eyebrows jumping. I tipped the object into his hand. "Thank you for showing it to me," I said.
  I lit a cigarette of my own and watched them working. The metal object had left slender red marks across my palm. Two little kids, maybe eight or nine, were balancing on their stomachs across the estate wall; the workmen waved their arms and shouted over the roar of machinery till the kids disappeared, but a minute or two later they were back again. The protesters put up umbrellas and handed around sandwiches. I watched for a long time, until my mobile began vibrating insistently in my pocket and the rain started to come down more heavily, and then I put out my cigarette and buttoned my coat and headed back to the car.
  I've taken a number of liberties with the workings of the Garda Síochána, the Irish police force. To pick the most obvious example, there is no Murder squad in Ireland—in 1997 various units were amalgamated to form the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, which assists local officers in investigating serious crimes, including murder—but the story seemed to require one. I owe David Walsh special thanks for helping me with a wild variety of questions about police procedure.