conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a title for a book about Paperback, Stephen, King with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By
  I've always wondered about my ultimate capacity for good sour mash sipping whiskey, and now I see that I've nearly finished the bottle which the indispensable Hackaliah brought to my room about eight this evening. It is now shortly before midnight. And I am cold staring sober. True, there is numbness along one edge of my tongue that might be attributable to drinking. But my hand is steady, and I easily read that which I have been setting down in these pages; read without the faintest blur, or those appalling moments of frozen blankness that troubled me earlier. (Curious that I can write at all. Another discipline well learned, what Boss calls the "taxing art of self-revelation.") I suppose, rather than drinking myself into a stupor, I've achieved a state of dreamlike consciousness in which I can function creditably, as a professional soldier should, touched but not paralyzed by the tragic circumstances that by the dreadful tragedy we have almost lost control. I am not as remote as I thought. I felt drastically unbalanced on a narrow ledge of the mind, about to go crashing—not into the aisle below, that aisle already packed with hysterically shoving men and women., but into a dirty dark drowning oblivion... another drink wouldn't hurt. And the pain in my ankle has reasserted itself. Fortunately it isn't broken. Soaking has already reduced the swelling by half.
  Is there a taint of smoke in the room? The wind must have freshened from the mountains. An hour ago soft rain fell, but not enough rain to dampen the inferno still raging in the George Washington National Forest a few miles away. Fires are burning from Georgia to New England this spring, the most destructive outbreak in memory, with millions of acres of prime timber in peril. It's sabotage, of course, the work of what the president has called a "sixth column" operating in this country. Those cadets who have not yet taken leave for the summer have been in the mountains all day, supplementing the weary fire-fighting crews of the park service. This lovely old town is in. no danger, but I have only to walk (to hobble) across the room to the balcony doors to observe that the eastern sky is a billowing blood-red
  The mind balks. But, quite apart from the conscious mind, the pen writes on as I sit and watch it, writes scarcely faltering, clean legible words words words waiting. Waiting for me to. And I must. If I am to have my sanity, then before memory is sealed like a grave I must account for it—all that I instinctively reject as inexplicable.
  God grant there is an explanation: not to be found in poor Clipper's face; oh, my dear brother, nothing there but the harrowing madness... I need to look elsewhere to begin, to understand.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By
  I've always wondered about my ultimate capacity for good sour mash sipping whiskey, and now I see that I've nearly finished the bottle which the indispensable Hackaliah brought to my room about eight this evening. It is now shortly before midnight. And I am cold staring sober. True, there is numbness along one edge of my tongue that might be attributable to drinking. But my hand is steady, and I easily read that which I have been setting down in these pages; read without the faintest blur, or those appalling moments of frozen blankness that troubled me earlier. (Curious that I can write at all. Another discipline well learned, what Boss calls the "taxing art of self-revelation.") I suppose, rather than drinking myself into a stupor, I've achieved a state of dreamlike consciousness in which I can function creditably, as a professional soldier should, touched but not paralyzed by the tragic circumstances that by the dreadful tragedy we have almost lost control. I am not as remote as I thought. I felt drastically unbalanced on a narrow ledge of the mind, about to go crashing—not into the aisle below, that aisle already packed with hysterically shoving men and women., but into a dirty dark drowning oblivion... another drink wouldn't hurt. And the pain in my ankle has reasserted itself. Fortunately it isn't broken. Soaking has already reduced the swelling by half.
  Is there a taint of smoke in the room? The wind must have freshened from the mountains. An hour ago soft rain fell, but not enough rain to dampen the inferno still raging in the George Washington National Forest a few miles away. Fires are burning from Georgia to New England this spring, the most destructive outbreak in memory, with millions of acres of prime timber in peril. It's sabotage, of course, the work of what the president has called a "sixth column" operating in this country. Those cadets who have not yet taken leave for the summer have been in the mountains all day, supplementing the weary fire-fighting crews of the park service. This lovely old town is in. no danger, but I have only to walk (to hobble) across the room to the balcony doors to observe that the eastern sky is a billowing blood-red
  The mind balks. But, quite apart from the conscious mind, the pen writes on as I sit and watch it, writes scarcely faltering, clean legible words words words waiting. Waiting for me to. And I must. If I am to have my sanity, then before memory is sealed like a grave I must account for it—all that I instinctively reject as inexplicable.
  God grant there is an explanation: not to be found in poor Clipper's face; oh, my dear brother, nothing there but the harrowing madness...
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Jackson looked around at Aunt Clary Gene, obscure in the shadowland of her great age. He felt a chilly apprehension: In this house he kept waking from dreams, his own lonely dreams or Champ's version of the circles of hell, to confront stern dark faces. Frail as she was, Aunt Clary Gene had a moralistic force as compelling as gravity. Jackson was drawn to her. He touched her arm, but she felt no need to look at him.
  Champ answered him. "There's no curse. We've had our share of bad luck, that's all. What family hasn't?" He had propped himself up and was staring at Jackson, for the moment both demanding and rational, yet he seemed to be slipping in and out of dense cloudy moods, some charged with lightning. "Bad luck with Clipper. Couldn't hold himself together. I know all about that now. Almost gave way myself. Maybe it'll still happen."
  Aunt Clary Gene had turned away and removed the tea maker from Champ's cup. She took the tea to him and spoke in a voice toothless and so soft as to be almost without words, a kind of communion hymn. Champ drank for her and lay back, her hand on his forehead. Jackson had further questions but felt out of touch now. He left them alone and went pensively downstairs toward the remaining voices in the front parlor.
  The night before he'd been too exhausted to fully appreciate her. Because of her exceptional height she dominated the few older men and women in the large parlor. She wore midnight blue instead of black: jersey, vest and skirt. Her uncovered hair was severely bound up, almost penitential in design, and her face had no coloring except for skin tone and the startling, marbleized green of her eyes. As she approached Jackson she still looked mildly embarrassed by the circumstances of their first meeting. She took his arm, momentarily turning her back on the room. It seemed to come as a relief to her.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Nhora sat down hard on the steps, a puzzled look in her eyes as she studied the mass of dripping red on the white pillar next to her. She looked down at her splattered dress and at the arm turned the wrong way in her lap. His shadow fell over her again, and she looked up, catching just a glimpse of the sharp saber point. She tasted rather than felt it enter, though the impact knocked her head back almost against the next step.
  His hat had fallen off. He stood there shy and barren-looking in the sun, wincing, mouth twisted in a flimsy, half-apologetic way, sword erect, hands braced on his thigh. He was stiff as a statue, but unbalanced, so the first pair of hands that reached for him tipped him easily, he went rolling down the steps still clutching the saber, rolled face-up and staring into the sun, prone but at attention, not moving a muscle.
  Nhora saw Jackson coming and thought to smile, but didn't, and thought to get up, but couldn't; her lap was heavy with lopped arm, there was a lethal congestion in her throat and rising now thickly to her mouth. So she waited for him, wishing he would hurry, seeing him dimmer the closer he came, until at last when he knelt in horror beside her she could barely make him out at all.
  Her hand rose and touched his and she tightened her fingers insistently, urging him to come along, but then, shaken by doubt, by the sorrow that had come along to spoil her perfect day, she realized it wasn't fair. And so she released him, reluctantly, withdrawing, seeing faintly the inconsolable look that crossed his face
  She closed her eyes, unaware that Jackson had snatched her hand back, pried open the clenching fingers, set her nails against his cheek. And then, with all his strength, Jackson drew the nails deeply into his flesh.