conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled A Writer's Life about Canada's, Neil, Cypress with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author was one of Canada's best-loved writers (and the father of renowned singer/songwriter, Neil the author.) For more than half a century, his name has been synonymous with first rate writing in many fields. -- novels and mysteries for both adults and younger readers, short stories, best-selling biographies, TV documentaries, hundreds of newspaper columns on topics from family life to sports to politics and back again -- all impressing readers with his insights, clarity and self-deprecating wit. Now the author's penetrating gaze and sometimes painfully clear insight turn upon the rents closes to him over the years -- providing us with a fascinating glimpse into his life. From his birth in Cypress River, Manitoba, April 14, 1918, he details his personal and professional life. He always wanted to be a writer and at age sixteen borrowed money from his employer and made a down payment on a Remington portable typewriter. He sold his first stor to Winnipeg Free Press for three dollars. the author writes candidly about his war experiences, as well as his three marriages, children and grandchildren. He reveals his special fondness for his farm near Omemee where he has spent much of his life. This very personal history -- written with the author's trademark humor and honest -- is sure to become a Canadian classic.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ) For more than half a century, his name has been synonymous with first rate writing in many fields. -- novels and mysteries for both adults and younger readers, short stories, best-selling biographies, TV documentaries, hundreds of newspaper columns on topics from family life to sports to politics and back again -- all impressing readers with his insights, clarity and self-deprecating wit. Now the author's penetrating gaze and sometimes painfully clear insight turn upon the rents closes to him over the years -- providing us with a fascinating glimpse into his life. From his birth in Cypress River, Manitoba, April 14, 1918, he details his personal and professional life. He always wanted to be a writer and at age sixteen borrowed money from his employer and made a down payment on a Remington portable typewriter. He sold his first stor to Winnipeg Free Press for three dollars. the author writes candidly about his war experiences, as well as his three marriages, children and grandchildren. He reveals his special fondness for his farm near Omemee where he has spent much of his life. This very personal history -- written with the author's trademark humor and honest -- is sure to become a Canadian classic.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled A Writer's Life about Reed, According, Writing with the genre: History, Americas.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: According to the author, "Writing is often like driving a truck at night without headlights, losing your way along the road, and spending a decade in a ditch." Reading his first substantially new publication since 1992's <I>Unto the Sons </I>is like being in the passenger seat of that truck while it's in motion. the author begins with a World Cup women's match between China and the United States; the game gives him a story idea, which he then abandons for roughly 300 pages for elegant digressions on, among other things, the civil rights demonstrations in Selma, the Lorena Bobbitt controversy and a string of flopped restaurants in an Upper East Side building. Somehow, he also works in a memoir of his early life, including perfectly etched memories of the <I>New York Times </I>newsroom (without directly reflecting on his prominence as one of the first New Journalists). This sort of thing can drag for long stretches unless you're willing to simply follow along as the author pursues his impulses wherever they lead him. No matter how frustrating it is as memoir, though, this is a near-perfect expression of the author's inquisitive personality, an inquisitiveness that has led to some of the outstanding journalism of the past few decades. <I>150,000 first printing. (Apr. 25) </I> <BR>Copyright &copy; Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All rights reserved." Reading his first substantially new publication since 1992's <I>Unto the Sons </I>is like being in the passenger seat of that truck while it's in motion. the author begins with a World Cup women's match between China and the United States; the game gives him a story idea, which he then abandons for roughly 300 pages for elegant digressions on, among other things, the civil rights demonstrations in Selma, the Lorena Bobbitt controversy and a string of flopped restaurants in an Upper East Side building. Somehow, he also works in a memoir of his early life, including perfectly etched memories of the <I>New York Times </I>newsroom (without directly reflecting on his prominence as one of the first New Journalists). This sort of thing can drag for long stretches unless you're willing to simply follow along as the author pursues his impulses wherever they lead him. No matter how frustrating it is as memoir, though, this is a near-perfect expression of the author's inquisitive personality, an inquisitiveness that has led to some of the outstanding journalism of the past few decades. <I>150,000 first printing. (Apr. 25) </I> <BR>Copyright &copy; Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc.According to the author, "Writing is often like driving a truck at night without headlights, losing your way along the road, and spending a decade in a ditch.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first three paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Writer's Life
  We who were not in his favor rarely reacted with inner feelings of gratitude on those occasions when we were called before him to receive an assignment; far more frequently than otherwise, we commiserated with one another in the back of the newsroom before dispersing ourselves to our appointed destinations, being collectively convinced that each of us had been assigned to cover a story that was uninteresting, inconsequential, and ultimately destined to be cut to shreds by the copydesk, if not killed entirely by Bernstein. When we were proved wrong—that is, when our assignments ended up as page-one stories, drawing letters of approval from readers—then, of course, we took full credit. It had been our writing skills and creative approaches to these assignments that had transformed what had been ordinary to something extraordinary. On the other hand, if our assignments had proved to be as pointless and unpublishable as we had predicted, then all the blame belonged to our superiors. How could any reporter write about something so bereft of substance, so ill-conceived and banal?
  Catledge was assigned to the New York staff for a while and was then sent overseas on special assignments. Near the end of World War II, as a passenger in an overcrowded military transport flying bumpily through a storm in the Burma-India theater, Catledge saw his life careening toward a disastrous conclusion, and, having been the last man aboard, he stood against the door, feeling nauseous and nervous, anticipating his having to leap from a burning wreckage after the plane had crashed into the desert. The pilot, however, did manage to land the plane safely; and, as the aircraft was brought to a halt, a British officer opened the door from the outside and announced, "Gentlemen, you are in New Delhi, the capital of India. You will please leave the plane by rank. While we journalists disliked hearing "No comment" from elected officials and other public figures when they were connected to controversies—and they were often criticized editorially for their evasiveness—our spokesmen were just as likely to say "No comment" when members of our profession were entangled in delicate situations, such as when a publisher was at odds with a striking labor union, or when a television anchor or syndicated columnist, balking over a contract, was in the process of quitting one employer for another. We in the media espoused double standards, and, as it suited us, we alternated between being "insiders" and "outsiders." We were outsiders in that we were uninvolved personally with the insiders we cultivated as sources, and we were insiders in the sense that we lived within the protective shield of the First Amendment and justified invading other people's privacy in ways that, were it done to us, we would have resented. We were ephemerons. Most of what we wrote was encompassed in a single day, and as professionals we lived vicariously through the ups and downs of other people. Our feelings were filtered, our sensibilities secondhand. With seeming sympathy and understanding, we encouraged the cooperation of those we pursued; but inwardly we were removed from the reality we recounted and the objects of our passing interest.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about embarrassing.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Writer's Life
  We who were not in his favor rarely reacted with inner feelings of gratitude on those occasions when we were called before him to receive an assignment; far more frequently than otherwise, we commiserated with one another in the back of the newsroom before dispersing ourselves to our appointed destinations, being collectively convinced that each of us had been assigned to cover a story that was uninteresting, inconsequential, and ultimately destined to be cut to shreds by the copydesk, if not killed entirely by Bernstein. When we were proved wrong—that is, when our assignments ended up as page-one stories, drawing letters of approval from readers—then, of course, we took full credit. It had been our writing skills and creative approaches to these assignments that had transformed what had been ordinary to something extraordinary. On the other hand, if our assignments had proved to be as pointless and unpublishable as we had predicted, then all the blame belonged to our superiors. How could any reporter write about something so bereft of substance, so ill-conceived and banal?
  Catledge was assigned to the New York staff for a while and was then sent overseas on special assignments. Near the end of World War II, as a passenger in an overcrowded military transport flying bumpily through a storm in the Burma-India theater, Catledge saw his life careening toward a disastrous conclusion, and, having been the last man aboard, he stood against the door, feeling nauseous and nervous, anticipating his having to leap from a burning wreckage after the plane had crashed into the desert. The pilot, however, did manage to land the plane safely; and, as the aircraft was brought to a halt, a British officer opened the door from the outside and announced, "Gentlemen, you are in New Delhi, the capital of India. You will please leave the plane by rank. "
  On those rare occasions when what we did was newsworthy but was also embarrassing to us, we could count on collegial coverage within the media, even from our journalistic rivals and the least discriminate of the tabloid columnists. While we journalists disliked hearing "No comment" from elected officials and other public figures when they were connected to controversies—and they were often criticized editorially for their evasiveness—our spokesmen were just as likely to say "No comment" when members of our profession were entangled in delicate situations, such as when a publisher was at odds with a striking labor union, or when a television anchor or syndicated columnist, balking over a contract, was in the process of quitting one employer for another. We in the media espoused double standards, and, as it suited us, we alternated between being "insiders" and "outsiders. " We were outsiders in that we were uninvolved personally with the insiders we cultivated as sources, and we were insiders in the sense that we lived within the protective shield of the First Amendment and justified invading other people's privacy in ways that, were it done to us, we would have resented. We were ephemerons. Most of what we wrote was encompassed in a single day, and as professionals we lived vicariously through the ups and downs of other people. Our feelings were filtered, our sensibilities secondhand. With seeming sympathy and understanding, we encouraged the cooperation of those we pursued; but inwardly we were removed from the reality we recounted and the objects of our passing interest.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Michael Dibblee was, therefore, a potentially valuable witness in Lorena's defense. He could lend credibility to her claim that her husband had raped and brutalized her on the morning of June 23. In the first trial, the jury had disbelieved her, in part because there had been no reports of screaming or sounds of a struggle coming from the Bobbitts' apartment before the cutting. Dibblee's failure to make his information known in time for use in the first trial had not helped the cause of the prosecutor, Paul Ebert. When Ebert later asked Dibblee why he had not told the police about the screaming when they had interrogated him shortly after the incident, Dibblee replied that he was not asked if he had heard anything; they had mainly seemed interested in his impressions of the Bobbitt couple, and, since he traveled so much, Dibblee could only say that he knew little about his next-door neighbors. He would greet Lorena from time to time on the staircase they shared, or in the parking lot, and he would sometimes see John Bobbitt at the pool, swimming, sunbathing, or trying to flirt with some of the young female bathers, including on one occasion Dibblee's own girlfriend, who responded to Bobbitt with immediate indifference.
  Taking the witness stand at Lorena's trial, Dibblee explained to one of the defense attorneys, James Lowe, that he had flown in from Paris on the evening of June 22 and was fatigued as he arrived at his apartment and had soon gone to bed. His girlfriend, Lorna, was already asleep.
  Ebert sat down, contented, but he still seemed to be rankled by the defense attorney's line of questioning. Paul Ebert rarely repressed his feelings in a courtroom, or anywhere else in this part of Virginia, where he had been born and reared and where, since becoming the county prosecutor twenty-six years before, he had been recognized as a formidable force for probity, if not always justice with compassion. A large man with graying blond hair, blue eyes, and the ruddy complexion of the outdoorsman that he was—his office was decorated with carved ducks and wildlife photos and was strewn with hunting magazines—Ebert had so far sent seven convicts to death (a record for a Virginia prosecutor), and, together with his thirteen assistants, he had prosecuted 2,416 new cases during the previous year, which was a 55 percent increase from a decade earlier. An outside attorney named Daniel Morissette, having competed unsuccessfully against Ebert in a capital murder case, said that Ebert usually "destroys defendants" during cross-examination.
  When it came time for the cross-examination of Michael Dibblee, Ebert got up from his chair slowly, smoothed out the wrinkles from the back of his dark suit with his big hands, and ambled over to the witness stand.
  The procession of defense witnesses who followed Dibblee to the stand were more successful than he had been in voicing their support for Lorena and emphasizing to the jury that her marriage to John Bobbitt had depressed her, had dehumanized her, and had brought her much physical suffering. Lynn Acquiviva, a customer at the nail salon that employed Lorena, recalled seeing her at work "with extensive bruising" on the top and sides of her head. Another customer, Roma Anastasi, described Lorena as characteristically "tense, nervous, and very sad." A onetime neighbor of Lorena's, Mary Jo Willoughby, had remembered her at times as "... hysterical... crying, just shaking." The assistant manager at the Bobbitt couple's apartment building, Beth Ann Wilson, told the jury that "Lorena seemed to be intimidated by John, had a hard time looking towards him." One of Erma Castro's daughters not only denounced John Bobbitt to the jury but presented them with some of the Polaroid pictures that she had taken of Lorena's bruised body in 1991 after Lorena had quarreled with her husband and had sought refuge in the Castro household. These photos were offered in evidence by Lorena's attorneys.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.. End with the sentence '.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: None of my imaginings transpired during the 2000 Olympics in Sydney. It would prove to be an event in which Liu Ying would never command the spotlight. Unable to play at full strength as a result of her earlier injury, she sat watching on the bench as her team was surprisingly overwhelmed by Norway, 3-0, in an early-round match that quickly eliminated China from further competition.
  A few days later, I flew from Sydney to Beijing, seeing Liu Ying on three or four occasions during the month I remained there. She was disappointed but not pessimistic, believing that the team would reclaim its stature by increasing its commitment, and that she herself, on regaining full strength, would contribute much as a member of the starting lineup. The Chinese press, however, was now saying that the team was getting old and was injury-prone, and what was needed were younger players and a new coach.
  I had planned to return to China in September 2003 to attend the World Cup matches scheduled to be hosted by the city of Shanghai, but the event was quickly relocated to the United States due to China's springtime SARS (severe acute respiratory syndrome) epidemic. Neither Liu Ying nor her teammates were taken ill, because they were insulated from the public. But in a warm-up match months prior to the World Cup, Liu Ying was again seriously injured. This time she dislocated her left knee, requiring surgery. She did eventually accompany the team to the United States, but her playing time was limited because she lacked her usual speed and agility. After the team had been eliminated in early-round competition by Canada, the new Chinese coach (who had taken over the team the year before and would, in turn, be fired a year later) informed Liu Ying that she was no longer a member of the national team. A youth movement was in progress, he said, with only four players from the twenty-two-member 1999 roster representing China in the 2004 Olympics in Athens. The youthful team would not represent progress, however, being overwhelmed by Germany, 8-0, followed by a 1-1 tie with Mexico, leading to China's early-round elimination. The Gold Medal went to the United States team that defeated Brazil, 2-1, in overtime.
  With the assistance of translators, I thereafter remained in touch with Liu Ying via E-mail or fax, or telephone calls placed from my home in New York, with an interpreter listening on an extension. During a recent conversation, she told me that she was planning to return to school, a college in Beijing. She said that her present ambition was to become, like her father before her, a physical education instructor.
  I am not now, nor have I ever been, fond of the game of soccer. Part of the reason is probably attributable to my age and the fact that when I was growing up along the southern shore of New Jersey a half century ago, the sport was virtually unknown to Americans, except to those of foreign birth. And even though my father was foreign-born—he was a dandified but dour custom tailor from a Calabrian village in southern Italy who became a United States citizen in the mid-1920s—his references to me about soccer were associated with his boyhood conflicts over the game, and his desire to play it in the afternoons with his school friends in an Italian courtyard instead of merely watching it being played as he sat sewing at the rear window of the nearby shop to which he was apprenticed....