conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Extinction, Club, Pere with the genre: Science & Math, Biological Sciences?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Extinction Club'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Extinction Club
  We travelled extensively, needless to say. For me, it meant five schools in seven years, which in theory should have made me sophisticated and worldly-wise, given me an array of experiences of life and culture. My father thought he was doing me a favour with all this travelling, giving me an exotic gift I'd remember for the rest of my life, something that would make me a fuller, more interesting being. "The only way to get the feel of the country is to become part of it," he advised. "Learn the language, interact, expand. Bloom where you're planted." But I did not expand or bloom; I shrank and shrivelled, withdrawing into myself. With the help of five nannies I learned five languages, not to socialize or learn local customs, but because I liked breaking codes. I collected and remembered phrases the way I collected and remembered stamps.
  In Europe for six years and Asia for one we wandered, my father penetrating into the real life of nations, me skimming over it, shut up in boarding schools or the pages of stamp albums. I withdrew from people like someone backing out of a swamp he had stumbled into accidentally. I was beginning to feel that I was suited to solitude, that the presence of others blurred me in some way, that a monk's cell or the desert would be ideal for me.
  My father didn't encourage me to follow in his footsteps, but when I expressed an interest in medicine he got me into the Broussais-Hôtel-Dieu in Paris. After a year and a half there I'd come to the conclusion that I wasn't meant to be a physician, and I had reason to think that my instructors had come to the same conclusion. You need a predisposition that begins at birth that I didn't have. You need a sympathy toward your fellow creatures—a belief they are worth saving—that I didn't have either.
  So I changed directions, checking myself into the Hôpital Marmottan, a drying-out facility on rue d'Armaillé in the 17th. My father was more relieved than upset, saying that I was "error-prone, accident-prone and addiction-prone," that I was "not the sort of man who was good in an emergency or particularly endowed with courage." It was not the first or last time he would say this.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is two more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I glanced back at the rectory, toward the attic window, wishing Céleste were here to prompt me. It was a mistake, a rookie mistake. Gervais followed my gaze to the window, from which a nightscope protruded.
  In a low murmur of grumbles, following Gervais's lead, everyone began packing up their things. They gunned their engines, one by one, before roaring off, leaving me finger salutes and foul exhaust. The last salute, which dripped blood, looked strangely familiar. Its owner had made the gesture twice before, I suddenly remembered, from a yellow Hummer.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Its owner had made the gesture twice before, I suddenly remembered, from a yellow Hummer.. The last salute, which dripped blood, looked strangely familiar. They gunned their engines, one by one, before roaring off, leaving me finger salutes and foul exhaust.
  In a low murmur of grumbles, following Gervais's lead, everyone began packing up their things. Gervais followed my gaze to the window, from which a nightscope protruded. It was a mistake, a rookie mistake.I glanced back at the rectory, toward the attic window, wishing Céleste were here to prompt me
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It was Solange Lacoursière — the vet from St. Mad who's not really a vet but a forensic mammalogist. She kissed me on both cheeks & said how sorry she was about everything that happened — almost everything, that is — & I said how sorry I was about everything that happened to her. "But... what happened exactly?" I asked. A traffic "accident," she replied, making quotation marks with her fingers. It happened in the parking lot of the Cave after she met "Mr. Nightingale." Which is why she never replied to his phone message — she was in the hospital. "Were you in love with him?" I blurted out stupidly, wishing I could've taken it back. She didn't answer. Just gave me a slow smile & asked if I wanted to study wildlife detection when I "grew up." I said that I didn't know & that I was already grown up. She asked if I still wanted to set up a sanctuary in the church & I said I didn't know that either. How? According to Gran, it would cost five thousand a month. What I didn't say is that I was going to be so spectacularly screwed up starting like, tonight, that I wouldn't be able to do anything except maybe collect stamps. That I wouldn't be able to live with the guilt of getting Nile killed, or my anger over his leaving the world while I still had to stay. Solange asked if I'd heard about the new cougar sightings & I said no. I was interested in what she was saying, I really was, but I kept looking around for Mr. Llewellyn, who seemed to have vanished into thin air. I was also on the lookout for Baz's thugs & triggers, who I was sure would come & spoil things. But they stayed away. All but one, that is.
  You may wonder how a ceremony could be held at a church that was so badly wrecked & robbed. Because in the days before the funeral a small forest of people arrived out of nowhere — including two look-alike brothers with bib overalls in a flat-bed truck, and two look-alike sisters with paint-splattered tools — & repaired everything, or almost (not the stained glass, not the pine floor) & while they worked they listened to Mr. Llewellyn's cassettes.
  And some of the stolen stuff began to come unstolen, like pressing rewind. I don't know who pressed it & no one seems to know. Everyone was super-nice, super-neighbourly. They said that the arrival of my friend "Inspecteur Nightingale" was a godsend, a "bénédiction du ciel."
  I know I said that I couldn't go on, that I was going to leave in an Exit Bag after we ridded this planet of a certain black heart. Or two. Or three. But I changed my mind. Not because I feel better about myself or the world or human beings — it'll take more than a few repairs & tears to do that — or because I love grouchy old ladies like Gran & hope to live long enough to be one. No. It's because a spent-wing angel saved me, and I don't want it to be all for nothing.
  And yet... it might all well be. A girl my age, dressed in a grey blazer & turtleneck that matched her smoky grey eyes, kept staring at me, glaring at me, from the back of the church. She hung around to the end, the last one to leave, and I knew she was waiting for me. "You're dead meat — you're going to get cut open like a fish, bled like a deer," she said in a flat voice, like a voice underwater.