conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about [the, York, Times with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'When the World Was Steady'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book? End with the sentence '
  The guest house at Air Sanih was peopled by Javanese tourists mostly, small, modest women in large black bathing-suits who would poke a finger or toe into one of the pools and then dart backwards, squealing, until at length a husband or a brother would push them in with great splashing and fanfare.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When the World Was Steady
  Sitting so close to Frank, the fat of their buttocks closer than touching, almost mingling, Emmy felt it was indeed high time he made it to a world of flush toilets and showers. He had removed his linen jacket for the freedom of his lightweight shirt, which was missing a button, allowing aggressive stray chest hairs to poke through. It was dyed a deep, varying yellow in the circles of his armpits, where days, perhaps months, of perspiration had gathered.
  Through this hour, Emmy and Frank didn't really converse. They behaved like a long-married couple, each in a reverie, sometimes noticing something outside the van and pointing it out to the other, with a tap or a nod.
  To be back in this safe world—what she had known and expected of the island—was a source of relief to Emmy. With that relief came the realization (although she had known it all along) that she wanted no more of Frank's company. He, like the village of Kintamani, depressed and repelled her.
  What to do now, where to go? Singaraja, like Den Pasar, the capital, was bustling and urban, with billboards and neon signs and a dirty, hot smell. She didn't want to stay there. Lavina Beach now seemed appealing, the prospect of a cabin by the sand and the soughing of the water beyond. Not to mention the luxury of plumbing! But having lost her temper with Frank, and all for effect, really—she hadn't known how else to be rid of him—she couldn't risk the humiliation of running into him again. All she knew for certain was that Lavina was to the west of Singaraja, and that she would, therefore, go east.
  The guest house at Air Sanih was peopled by Javanese tourists mostly, small, modest women in large black bathing-suits who would poke a finger or toe into one of the pools and then dart backwards, squealing, until at length a husband or a brother would push them in with great splashing and fanfare.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Angelica wrinkled her nose. She knew how highly strung Virginia could be. She remembered her tears only a couple of nights before. Angelica hated Mrs Simpson.
  Mrs Simpson's resolve was wavering. It was, after all, getting late. 'What could we do?' she asked doubtfully. 'If she's with friends, we'll look downright foolish, and if she's lost, it's difficult to know where to begin.'
  They settled in the sitting-room, the television on, with the windows open to the street—in order, Mrs Simpson did not say, to hear the sirens of any passing ambulances or police cars—and Angelica with Bella on her lap. They watched a police drama in silence, each transposing what they saw on the screen to a private catalogue of imagined gore concerning Virginia. Angelica continued to stroke Bella, vigorously, eventually sweatily, as a means of calming her nerves.
  The hour of reckoning came and went, and both knew it and said nothing. They kept their eyes firmly on the television. Mrs Simpson broke out in little beads of sweat. After a time she said, 'It's a very warm night.'
  It was well past eleven when they heard the key in the lock. Mrs Simpson made a whistling noise and thrust herself out of her chair as if jolted by an electrical current. 'Virginia?' she called. 'Virginia Simpson, is that you?'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Angelica wrinkled her nose. She knew how highly strung Virginia could be. She remembered her tears only a couple of nights before. Angelica hated Mrs Simpson.
  Mrs Simpson's resolve was wavering. It was, after all, getting late. 'What could we do?' she asked doubtfully. 'If she's with friends, we'll look downright foolish, and if she's lost, it's difficult to know where to begin.'
  They settled in the sitting-room, the television on, with the windows open to the street—in order, Mrs Simpson did not say, to hear the sirens of any passing ambulances or police cars—and Angelica with Bella on her lap. They watched a police drama in silence, each transposing what they saw on the screen to a private catalogue of imagined gore concerning Virginia. Angelica continued to stroke Bella, vigorously, eventually sweatily, as a means of calming her nerves.
  The hour of reckoning came and went, and both knew it and said nothing. They kept their eyes firmly on the television. Mrs Simpson broke out in little beads of sweat. After a time she said, 'It's a very warm night.'
  It was well past eleven when they heard the key in the lock. Mrs Simpson made a whistling noise and thrust herself out of her chair as if jolted by an electrical current. 'Virginia?' she called.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Do you remember those dreams? I don't have them anymore, but they were a joy of my youth. To confront despair—the dogs at my heels, or the angry man with a raised fist or a club—and have only to flap my arms, rising slowly, directly upward, like a helicopter or an apotheosis, and then soaring, free. I skimmed the rooftops, gulping the wind, rode the air currents like waves, over fields and fences, along the shore, out over the ruffled indigo of the sea. And the light of the sky, when you fly—do you remember that? The clouds like illuminated pillows, close and moist when you ventured into them, and ah! the revelation when you came out the other side. Flying was everything, once.
  But I've come to the conclusion that it's the wrong choice. Because you think the world is yours, but really you're always flying away from something; and the dogs at your heels and the man with the club—they don't go away because you can't see them anymore. They are reality.
  As for being invisible, it makes things more real. You walk into a room where you are not, and you hear what people say, unguardedly; you watch how they move when they aren't with you. You see them without their masks—or in their various masks, because suddenly you can see them anywhere. It may be painful to learn what happens when you're behind the arras; but then, please God, you know.
  All these years, I was wrong, you see. Most people around me, too. And especially now that I've learned that I really am invisible, I need to stop wanting to fly. I want to stop needing to fly. I want it all to do over again; but also I don't. I want to make my nothingness count. Don't think it's impossible.