conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a description for a book titled News of the World about Western, Texan, Library with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: This Western is not to be missed by the authors fans and lovers of Texan historical fiction. ( Library Journal on NEWS OF THE WORLD)
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: News of the World
  Yesterday I heard a Dutch doctor talking to a small girl who had cut her foot, not seriously, & was very frightened by the sight of her own blood. "Nay! Nay!" he said over & over. I could hear him quite distinctly through the wall that separated us, & his voice was strong & calm, he spoke very slowly & seemed never to stop speaking; almost as though he were chanting, never too loud or too soft. Her voice, which had been explosive & shrill at first, gradually softened until I could no longer make it out as he went on talking &, I suppose, working. Then a silence, & he said, "Ah" & some words I could not understand. I imagined him stepping spryly back to survey his work. And then another voice, silent before, the girl's father, thanking him, & then the girl thanking him, now in a child's voice. A door opening & closing. And it was over.
  Manhattan is not an island—I don't care what you read—it's not an island. I can walk there from my house in Brooklyn, which is also not an island. You may hear that Australia is a continent. I lived there, I know it's an island, one of many in the surrounding southern oceans. For a week I stayed in a little cottage a hundred miles south of Wollongong. At low tide we would walk out onto shelves of rock & coral for miles, & I would stare out in the direction of Brooklyn & see only acres of noisily churning water & not a single person I knew. On the streets of Manhattan & Brooklyn people of all ages walk, & as they do they speak—often in private, imaginary languages—so there is a constant music. If they are alone they will speak to the pigeons & sparrows—mainland birds are a constant presence—, & if the sparrows & pigeons turn away because the talkers are sober they'll go on talking to the sunlight or the moonlight or to nothing at all. One lives inside an immense, endless opera punctuated by the high notes of sirens & the basso profundo of trucks & jackhammers & ferries & tugboats. And when you merge your own small & sincere voice with the singing you come to realize this music is merely the background to a great American epic. All these voices are singing about who you are. For a moment you are part of the mainland.
  The diner was closed. The two brothers stared through the window & could see no one behind the counter. One small light burned over the cash register, but not even the yellow tiger cat that adorned the counter was home today. Max, the huskier brother in a checked mackinaw, suggested they find another dump. "If Teresa's ain't open, nothing gonna be open," Bernie, his taller, wiry brother said. "There's the Greek," said Max, "come on, it's close." The Greek was actually Yervan, an Armenian who'd opened a small grocery store that sold delicatessen across from the transmission plant. Bernie thought of lighting a joint on the short walk but realized he was too tired for that. "What you got today, Nick?" Max said. "What you want?" said the Greek. "Coffee & two eggs over easy with crisp bacon & whole wheat toast," said Bernie. Yervan told them to try Teresa's because this wasn't a restaurant. "You call Teresa's a restaurant?" said Max. "For eight hours I been thinking of nothing but breakfast," said Bernie. "This has spoiled my whole weekend, maybe my whole life." By this time the sun had cleared the stacks of the transmission plant & broken through the dusty window of the deli. The Greek shielded his eyes & knew it was going to be a long day; maybe he'd clean the front window, tidy up the place. "I got coffees & fresh milks," he said, "those little pies you guys like." "Okay," said Bernie & put both hands on the counter & leaned in to them. "If I had anything left in me," he said, "I'd cry."
  Once we were out of Barcelona the road climbed past small farmhouses hunched down on the gray, chalky hillsides. The last person we saw was a girl in her late teens in a black dress & gray apron carrying a chicken upside down by the claws. She looked up & smiled. An hour later the land opened into enormous green meadows. At the frontier a cop asked in guttural Spanish almost as bad as mine why were we going to Andorra. "Tourism," I said. Laughing, he waved us through. The rock walls of the valley were so abrupt the town was only a single street wide. Blue plumes of smoke ascended straight into the darkening sky. The next morning we found what we'd come for: the perfect radio, French-made, portable, lightweight, slightly garish with its colored dial & chromed knobs, inexpensive. "Because of the mountains, reception is poor," the shop owner said, so he tuned in the local Communist station beamed to Spain. "Communist?" I said. Oh yes, they'd come twenty-five years ago to escape the Germans, & they'd stayed. "Back then," he said, "we were all reds." "And now?" I said. Now he could sell me anything I wanted. "Anything?" He nodded. A tall, graying man, his face carved down to its essentials. "A Cadillac?" I said. Yes, of course, he could get on the phone & have it out front—he checked his pocket watch—by four in the afternoon. "An American film star?" One hand on his unshaved cheek, he gazed upward at the dark beamed ceiling. "That could take a week."
  The phrase "my former schoolmates... off on a distant continent" is a reference to those drafted into the service during the Korean War.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is another paragraph?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Once we were out of Barcelona the road climbed past small farmhouses hunched down on the gray, chalky hillsides. The last person we saw was a girl in her late teens in a black dress & gray apron carrying a chicken upside down by the claws. She looked up & smiled. An hour later the land opened into enormous green meadows. At the frontier a cop asked in guttural Spanish almost as bad as mine why were we going to Andorra. "Tourism," I said. Laughing, he waved us through. The rock walls of the valley were so abrupt the town was only a single street wide. Blue plumes of smoke ascended straight into the darkening sky. The next morning we found what we'd come for: the perfect radio, French-made, portable, lightweight, slightly garish with its colored dial & chromed knobs, inexpensive. "Because of the mountains, reception is poor," the shop owner said, so he tuned in the local Communist station beamed to Spain. "Communist?" I said. Oh yes, they'd come twenty-five years ago to escape the Germans, & they'd stayed. "Back then," he said, "we were all reds." "And now?" I said. Now he could sell me anything I wanted. "Anything?" He nodded. A tall, graying man, his face carved down to its essentials. "A Cadillac?" I said. Yes, of course, he could get on the phone & have it out front—he checked his pocket watch—by four in the afternoon. "An American film star?" One hand on his unshaved cheek, he gazed upward at the dark beamed ceiling. "That could take a week."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The diner was closed. The two brothers stared through the window & could see no one behind the counter. One small light burned over the cash register, but not even the yellow tiger cat that adorned the counter was home today. Max, the huskier brother in a checked mackinaw, suggested they find another dump. "If Teresa's ain't open, nothing gonna be open," Bernie, his taller, wiry brother said. "There's the Greek," said Max, "come on, it's close." The Greek was actually Yervan, an Armenian who'd opened a small grocery store that sold delicatessen across from the transmission plant. Bernie thought of lighting a joint on the short walk but realized he was too tired for that. "What you got today, Nick?" Max said. "What you want?" said the Greek. "Coffee & two eggs over easy with crisp bacon & whole wheat toast," said Bernie. Yervan told them to try Teresa's because this wasn't a restaurant. "You call Teresa's a restaurant?" said Max. "For eight hours I been thinking of nothing but breakfast," said Bernie. "This has spoiled my whole weekend, maybe my whole life." By this time the sun had cleared the stacks of the transmission plant & broken through the dusty window of the deli. The Greek shielded his eyes & knew it was going to be a long day; maybe he'd clean the front window, tidy up the place. "I got coffees & fresh milks," he said, "those little pies you guys like." "Okay," said Bernie & put both hands on the counter & leaned in to them. "If I had anything left in me," he said, "I'd cry."
  Once we were out of Barcelona the road climbed past small farmhouses hunched down on the gray, chalky hillsides. The last person we saw was a girl in her late teens in a black dress & gray apron carrying a chicken upside down by the claws. She looked up & smiled. An hour later the land opened into enormous green meadows. At the frontier a cop asked in guttural Spanish almost as bad as mine why were we going to Andorra. "Tourism," I said. Laughing, he waved us through. The rock walls of the valley were so abrupt the town was only a single street wide. Blue plumes of smoke ascended straight into the darkening sky. The next morning we found what we'd come for: the perfect radio, French-made, portable, lightweight, slightly garish with its colored dial & chromed knobs, inexpensive. "Because of the mountains, reception is poor," the shop owner said, so he tuned in the local Communist station beamed to Spain. "Communist?" I said. Oh yes, they'd come twenty-five years ago to escape the Germans, & they'd stayed. "Back then," he said, "we were all reds." "And now?" I said. Now he could sell me anything I wanted. "Anything?" He nodded. A tall, graying man, his face carved down to its essentials. "A Cadillac?" I said. Yes, of course, he could get on the phone & have it out front—he checked his pocket watch—by four in the afternoon. "An American film star?" One hand on his unshaved cheek, he gazed upward at the dark beamed ceiling. "That could take a week."
  The phrase "my former schoolmates... off on a distant continent" is a reference to those drafted into the service during the Korean War.
  One of the military leaders of the coup that brought down Salazar's forty-year dictatorship in Portugal was later charged with being a member of a terrorist organization, and though popularly known as "the father of Portuguese democracy," he was sentenced to seventeen years in prison.
  My thanks to Tom Sleigh, Ed Hirsch, Peter Everwine, and my wife, Franny, all of whom read the manuscript and suggested changes.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: My thanks to Tom Sleigh, Ed Hirsch, Peter Everwine, and my wife, Franny, all of whom read the manuscript and suggested changes. The two brothers stared through the window & could see no one behind the counter. One small light burned over the cash register, but not even the yellow tiger cat that adorned the counter was home today. Max, the huskier brother in a checked mackinaw, suggested they find another dump. "If Teresa's ain't open, nothing gonna be open," Bernie, his taller, wiry brother said. "There's the Greek," said Max, "come on, it's close." The Greek was actually Yervan, an Armenian who'd opened a small grocery store that sold delicatessen across from the transmission plant. Bernie thought of lighting a joint on the short walk but realized he was too tired for that. "What you got today, Nick?" Max said. "What you want?" said the Greek. "Coffee & two eggs over easy with crisp bacon & whole wheat toast," said Bernie. Yervan told them to try Teresa's because this wasn't a restaurant. "You call Teresa's a restaurant?" said Max. "For eight hours I been thinking of nothing but breakfast," said Bernie. "This has spoiled my whole weekend, maybe my whole life." By this time the sun had cleared the stacks of the transmission plant & broken through the dusty window of the deli. The Greek shielded his eyes & knew it was going to be a long day; maybe he'd clean the front window, tidy up the place. "I got coffees & fresh milks," he said, "those little pies you guys like." "Okay," said Bernie & put both hands on the counter & leaned in to them. "If I had anything left in me," he said, "I'd cry."
  Once we were out of Barcelona the road climbed past small farmhouses hunched down on the gray, chalky hillsides. The last person we saw was a girl in her late teens in a black dress & gray apron carrying a chicken upside down by the claws. She looked up & smiled. An hour later the land opened into enormous green meadows. At the frontier a cop asked in guttural Spanish almost as bad as mine why were we going to Andorra. "Tourism," I said. Laughing, he waved us through. The rock walls of the valley were so abrupt the town was only a single street wide. Blue plumes of smoke ascended straight into the darkening sky. The next morning we found what we'd come for: the perfect radio, French-made, portable, lightweight, slightly garish with its colored dial & chromed knobs, inexpensive. "Because of the mountains, reception is poor," the shop owner said, so he tuned in the local Communist station beamed to Spain. "Communist?" I said. Oh yes, they'd come twenty-five years ago to escape the Germans, & they'd stayed. "Back then," he said, "we were all reds." "And now?" I said. Now he could sell me anything I wanted. "Anything?" He nodded. A tall, graying man, his face carved down to its essentials. "A Cadillac?" I said. Yes, of course, he could get on the phone & have it out front—he checked his pocket watch—by four in the afternoon. "An American film star?" One hand on his unshaved cheek, he gazed upward at the dark beamed ceiling. "That could take a week."
  The phrase "my former schoolmates... off on a distant continent" is a reference to those drafted into the service during the Korean War.
  One of the military leaders of the coup that brought down Salazar's forty-year dictatorship in Portugal was later charged with being a member of a terrorist organization, and though popularly known as "the father of Portuguese democracy," he was sentenced to seventeen years in prison.The diner was closed.