conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled Maps for Lost Lovers about Despite, Observer, Salman with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "'Despite the violence that lies at the heart of the novel, it is a celebration of love and life... This is that rare sort of book that gives a voice to those whose voices are seldom heard.' Observer; 'the author is a genuinely exciting new voice, lively, confident, uninhibited and ambitious. This is one of the most impressive... novels of recent years' Salman Rushdie"
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "'Despite the violence that lies at the heart of the novel, it is a celebration of love and life... This is that rare sort of book that gives a voice to those whose voices are seldom heard.' Observer; 'the author is a genuinely exciting new voice, lively, confident, uninhibited and ambitious. This is one of the most impressive...
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Maps for Lost Lovers
  He looks up at the sky. Today will be one of those late English spring days that have no independent temperature: it will be hot out under the sun but the body will feel cold if taken indoors.
  Muslim. She looks at the marriage finger: there is no ring, but that is no proof because the wearing of marriage rings isn't really a strict custom in the Subcontinent.
  She must try to keep him here, to find out more about him. "Tell me, do you think it was here that the police found a human heart some weeks ago? I overheard some little girls in a shop saying that when the children who chanced upon it had poked it with a stick it had given a few beats. What imagination the children have!" Perhaps he will now make a comment about his own children?
  She nods. The dawn surrounds them both with its green-and-blue, the deep sky above and the almost-luminous new growth of leaves below it. He is surely too aloof and dignified to be interested in her. He is obviously not a factory worker or taxi driver because his hands are soft-looking and almost pink.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But even if he wanted to tell someone about what happened, he is not sure he would be able to find a voice in which to do it. The very minor fracture in his trachea is beginning to heal but he's having trouble speaking. He is not entirely mute but there have been bouts when he couldn't put a sentence together without stuttering or stammering.
  What has Suraya done about their baby? He hopes, for her sake, that she isn't pregnant after all, that the pregnancy test was inaccurate. His liaison with her has complicated her life needlessly.
  Kaukab looks out to see if she can find someone on their way to the shop, to ask them to get a packet of pistachios for her. All ears, Adam's apple, and brittle vanity, a teenager goes by but he is going in the opposite direction; he is smoking and she resists the urge to tell him like a good aunt that he should be fasting.
  Kaukab shakes her head to drive away the smell of food from her head, the smell of Shamas's lunch—it has mostly evaporated but the tip of its long tail is trapped under the lid of the enamel pan in which the leftovers lie. An Eid card has arrived from her father in Pakistan, full of pop-up doves in flight and minutely detailed palm fronds and jasmine garlands: it is impossible to open without risking a rip to the various tines and frills that stick to each other like eyelashes after sleep.
  She goes to the window and looks out and sees a newspaper photographer taking a picture of the vicar outside the church; it is typical that the white people are treating their holy man as though he is ridiculous for having stood up against the moral vacuum of this obscene and degraded country. For once she would like to go from her house to, say, the post office without being confronted by the decay of Western culture.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A bright-green rose-ringed parakeet makes a shrill noise as it darts through the snowflakes to the left of him.
  He gets up and walks along the streets where the shops are being opened but he stops to look in through the glass pane of the newsagent. In the local paper there is the picture of a Pakistani man who was found dead in the snow by the lake—someone quite prominent and respected, it seems.
  They'll collide at the corner in less than a minute and it wouldn't have happened had the photograph of the dead man not held his attention for those few moments—she wouldn't yet have arrived at the corner...
  She's walking close to the wall, sheltering against the wind, approaching the corner. She remarks to herself that the snow is as bright as a full moon.
  He looks at the face in the newspaper. It is the first day in over a fortnight that he has dared to venture into the town centre, afraid of other people, of being recognized. Someone could follow him and inform Chanda's family of his whereabouts—they must be deeply angry at him for not having gone through with what they had planned. He hasn't been able to sleep much and keeps thinking some calamity is imminent, dreaming again and again of rocks and stones being hurled at butterflies. But at dawn today he had told himself to go out into the world again. If a calamity is coming then where else would he rather be than with his fellow humans? What else is there but them?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: If a calamity is coming then where else would he rather be than with his fellow humans? What else is there but them?
  He gets up and walks along the streets where the shops are being opened but he stops to look in through the glass pane of the newsagent. In the local paper there is the picture of a Pakistani man who was found dead in the snow by the lake—someone quite prominent and respected, it seems.
  They'll collide at the corner in less than a minute and it wouldn't have happened had the photograph of the dead man not held his attention for those few moments—she wouldn't yet have arrived at the corner...
  She's walking close to the wall, sheltering against the wind, approaching the corner. She remarks to herself that the snow is as bright as a full moon.
  He looks at the face in the newspaper. It is the first day in over a fortnight that he has dared to venture into the town centre, afraid of other people, of being recognized. Someone could follow him and inform Chanda's family of his whereabouts—they must be deeply angry at him for not having gone through with what they had planned. He hasn't been able to sleep much and keeps thinking some calamity is imminent, dreaming again and again of rocks and stones being hurled at butterflies. But at dawn today he had told himself to go out into the world again.A bright-green rose-ringed parakeet makes a shrill noise as it darts through the snowflakes to the left of him.