conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Unseen, Award, Betty with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Literary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Despite The Falling Snow'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Despite the Falling Snow
  But then, he has begun to question the whole communist ethos. The seeds of that questioning had been within him, had been germinating through meetings and work which had been frustrating and often hopeless. But now he wonders if even a good leader and a good government can make something worthwhile of such a system. Oh, Katya, how you have taught me to start thinking. And if every man starts to think for himself, and believe different things, then how can such a system survive?
  And yet, the goals and ideas he has grown up with linger on. He always wanted to work for his country, to make a difference from within the existing framework of government. He had hoped that there would be more revolutions for the Soviet Union, but quiet ones. And things are progressing; there is more accountability, a little more respect for the individual.
  He does not recall when Katya actually said those words to him, but he hears them now as clearly as if she is standing in the room with him. He glances up at the imposing leather-covered double doors of his office, his head still resting on his hands, but of course there is no-one there. He sighs and looks down again. Maybe she is right. Maybe it is time to make a difference from without. Perhaps it is the only way. Today, at work, he has found something out, some news that he has been dreading. She is in immediate danger. He rubs his head again. There is no way out of this place. And yet, if they stay, they will both end up in prison, or worse.
  From the soft cradle of the back seat, he sits quietly, mind blank, watching the mustard buildings of the central city blur past the window. The movement accentuates the throbbing in his temples, and so he faces forwards, and watches the back of the driver's head. The head is small, and fits Sergei's thin, small frame. The fragile bones and unformed muscles of a boy who grew up during the war, hungry. Starved of even the most basic nutrients. There are so many like that, of a slightly unnatural height and shape. Sergei is from Leningrad, and suffered more than most in surviving the brutal German siege. He has told Alexander how his grandfather, who was already weak from old age, died within weeks of the food supplies being cut, and how his mother then boiled the old man's shoes over and over again to make a soup from whatever goodness and flavour she could wring from the soaked leather. No one had much back then, but thanks to Alexander's father's position, he got through it incomparably better than many other boys his age. When Germany attacked the Soviet Union in 1941, he and his family were evacuated with other government-related families to Kuibyshev. By the edge of the flowing Volga, Alexander lived with his parents and aunt in two small rooms. It was a strange, short interlude in his life, but they were kept safe, distanced from the worst traumas of the war. He puts away the recollections and sighs silently. He is tired, but the weariness is not a physical sensation.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She pauses, and he is still behind her. She can feel him wavering, she is sure of it. Something has touched a nerve. Perhaps, like her, he feels that, even if the odds are against them, he has nothing to lose by trying. Perhaps one more round of persuasion will clinch it.
  She rocks forward on her knees so that her forehead touches the dirty ground, and she waits for the spasm to pass. The kick has thoroughly winded her. Perhaps it is better if I pass out now, she thinks, before he shoots me, but her lungs instinctively fight for breath. She sobs slightly. She wants to go home. She is scared of dying like this, like her parents, with a bullet that will explode through her brain, erasing her and her baby from the earth, leaving Sasha alone with the horror of it. It seems too hard that this black destiny should descend on her now, when they have come so very close to the happiness they imagined together.
  Misha closes his finger around the trigger of the gun. This is taking too long. He is tempted, briefly, to pull her up and kiss her, to know at last how it would feel to have her lips on his, to taste her warm mouth and tongue with his own, to savour what Alexander has enjoyed for all this time without even thinking about it. But that will only make it harder than it is already. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the blackness that is revealed to him. He is blocking out sight, blocking thought, blocking all sense; but from somewhere, he can hear a buzzing. Misha keeps his eyes tightly shut a little longer, and pretends that the buzzing he hears is the distant sound of an aeroplane. He pictures it flying a straight course across an imaginary horizon. How he loved aeroplanes when he was a little boy. Little Misha. Keeping old newspaper cuttings of the first, heroic, Soviet pilots. Pictures of them in their beautiful planes, pictures of them meeting Comrade Stalin. With his classmates, he had watched them flying over Red Square on national holidays, had watched them being saluted by their leader, amid cheers. That was all he had ever wanted to do when he was young. Get into a cockpit, cheered by admiring crowds and fly up into the grey sky, away from the city, and up high above the clouds where, his father had assured him, the sky was always blue.
  He opens his eyes and glances down at the top of her head. His gaze is steady now, and cool, and he knows he has crossed the line in his mind, so that now she will give him no more trouble. Without another moment's thought, he pulls the trigger, twice, and stands back, dispassionate, as she slumps forward.
  Neither of them speaks much during the drive home from the airport. During the long flight back they have been depressed and agitated by turns. They have talked about Misha's confession, examined his words from every angle, pieced together not only the facts of the case, but the emotions of it too. Now, during the final leg of the journey home, it is as though all of that artificial, nervous energy has drained from them. Lauren in particular is tense, deeply upset. Each mile along the highway is only bringing her closer to Alexander, and she does not quite know how to tell him what they have learned.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Katya, buzzing.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She pauses, and he is still behind her. She can feel him wavering, she is sure of it. Something has touched a nerve. Perhaps, like her, he feels that, even if the odds are against them, he has nothing to lose by trying. Perhaps one more round of persuasion will clinch it. 
  She rocks forward on her knees so that her forehead touches the dirty ground, and she waits for the spasm to pass. The kick has thoroughly winded her. Perhaps it is better if I pass out now, she thinks, before he shoots me, but her lungs instinctively fight for breath. She sobs slightly. She wants to go home. She is scared of dying like this, like her parents, with a bullet that will explode through her brain, erasing her and her baby from the earth, leaving Sasha alone with the horror of it. It seems too hard that this black destiny should descend on her now, when they have come so very close to the happiness they imagined together. 
  Misha closes his finger around the trigger of the gun. This is taking too long. He is tempted, briefly, to pull her up and kiss her, to know at last how it would feel to have her lips on his, to taste her warm mouth and tongue with his own, to savour what Alexander has enjoyed for all this time without even thinking about it. But that will only make it harder than it is already. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the blackness that is revealed to him. He is blocking out sight, blocking thought, blocking all sense; but from somewhere, he can hear a buzzing. His right ear is buzzing – from where Katya has hit him, probably. Misha keeps his eyes tightly shut a little longer, and pretends that the buzzing he hears is the distant sound of an aeroplane. He pictures it flying a straight course across an imaginary horizon. How he loved aeroplanes when he was a little boy. Little Misha. Keeping old newspaper cuttings of the first, heroic, Soviet pilots. Pictures of them in their beautiful planes, pictures of them meeting Comrade Stalin. With his classmates, he had watched them flying over Red Square on national holidays, had watched them being saluted by their leader, amid cheers. That was all he had ever wanted to do when he was young. Get into a cockpit, cheered by admiring crowds and fly up into the grey sky, away from the city, and up high above the clouds where, his father had assured him, the sky was always blue. 
  He opens his eyes and glances down at the top of her head. His gaze is steady now, and cool, and he knows he has crossed the line in his mind, so that now she will give him no more trouble. Without another moment's thought, he pulls the trigger, twice, and stands back, dispassionate, as she slumps forward. 
  Neither of them speaks much during the drive home from the airport. During the long flight back they have been depressed and agitated by turns. They have talked about Misha's confession, examined his words from every angle, pieced together not only the facts of the case, but the emotions of it too. Now, during the final leg of the journey home, it is as though all of that artificial, nervous energy has drained from them. Lauren in particular is tense, deeply upset. Each mile along the highway is only bringing her closer to Alexander, and she does not quite know how to tell him what they have learned.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Standing up, he offers her his hand, and together they walk across the courtyard and to the main road. They join the line for a cab and he turns to her. His face is handsome and stern and kind as he stands there watching her. She feels lost suddenly, and a moment of panic crosses her face.
  But he will not let her go so easily. His eyes hold her down until she looks away. Perhaps he is challenging her to show that courage that she just talked about. She swallows and looks up at him again.
  Estelle only nods, for she cannot speak just now. She does not know whether it is tiredness, excitement, relief or uncertainty, but she feels tears in her eyes. Despite her best efforts, a rogue droplet escapes from the edge of her eye and runs over her cheek. His hand reaches up to brush it away.
  It is late, perhaps one o'clock in the morning. To be able to sit in her uncle's living room, wrapped in a thick darkness that is scattered away only here and there by the last flickers of the fire, seems luxurious to Lauren, like being swathed in the softest velvet. She has waited until Alexander is asleep before methodically turning out all the lights downstairs. Her head begins to feel heavier as she watches the dying flames, and before she should fall asleep, she rouses herself and goes over to the cloth-draped easel that stands at the other end of the room. She lifts the cloth away, and glances at the beginnings of Estelle's portrait. She can see little of it in the dim light. Lifting it down, she leans it against a second sketch that outlines the features of her uncle. Then she wraps the cloth around both.
  She watched them both tonight at dinner, closely. In Alexander she saw a new softness and peace, a relaxation of the features And in Estelle, she sensed a more determined look in the blue eyes, which previously had only masked her inner feelings with irony and laughter. Or perhaps she merely imagined these changes – had wished for them so much that she read them into the faces before her. In any event, she is tired. She does not want to paint for a while, and maybe the time off that she takes will allow those developments to occur that she wants to see in her two latest subjects. Wandering back to the fireplace, she looks up at Katya's portrait. The shadows cast onto her face by the glowing embers mean that her eyes and mouth are barely visible. How would her aunt have changed, had she been given the chance? Lauren looks at the painting, trying in her mind to re-work the familiar features so that age and experience cause their alterations. But she cannot – the choices that her aunt may have made, the way her character could have developed are too varied to be pinned down so easily. Lauren closes her eyes, but beneath the lids that burn from lack of sleep, the image of Katya still lies, clear and bright. She pushes down the last embers of the fire with the poker, and turns to leave the room.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She pushes down the last embers of the fire with the poker, and turns to leave the room. They join the line for a cab and he turns to her. His face is handsome and stern and kind as he stands there watching her. She feels lost suddenly, and a moment of panic crosses her face.
  But he will not let her go so easily. His eyes hold her down until she looks away. Perhaps he is challenging her to show that courage that she just talked about. She swallows and looks up at him again.
  Estelle only nods, for she cannot speak just now. She does not know whether it is tiredness, excitement, relief or uncertainty, but she feels tears in her eyes. Despite her best efforts, a rogue droplet escapes from the edge of her eye and runs over her cheek. His hand reaches up to brush it away.
  It is late, perhaps one o'clock in the morning. To be able to sit in her uncle's living room, wrapped in a thick darkness that is scattered away only here and there by the last flickers of the fire, seems luxurious to Lauren, like being swathed in the softest velvet. She has waited until Alexander is asleep before methodically turning out all the lights downstairs. Her head begins to feel heavier as she watches the dying flames, and before she should fall asleep, she rouses herself and goes over to the cloth-draped easel that stands at the other end of the room. She lifts the cloth away, and glances at the beginnings of Estelle's portrait. She can see little of it in the dim light. Lifting it down, she leans it against a second sketch that outlines the features of her uncle. Then she wraps the cloth around both.
  She watched them both tonight at dinner, closely. In Alexander she saw a new softness and peace, a relaxation of the features And in Estelle, she sensed a more determined look in the blue eyes, which previously had only masked her inner feelings with irony and laughter. Or perhaps she merely imagined these changes – had wished for them so much that she read them into the faces before her. In any event, she is tired. She does not want to paint for a while, and maybe the time off that she takes will allow those developments to occur that she wants to see in her two latest subjects. Wandering back to the fireplace, she looks up at Katya's portrait. The shadows cast onto her face by the glowing embers mean that her eyes and mouth are barely visible. How would her aunt have changed, had she been given the chance? Lauren looks at the painting, trying in her mind to re-work the familiar features so that age and experience cause their alterations. But she cannot – the choices that her aunt may have made, the way her character could have developed are too varied to be pinned down so easily. Lauren closes her eyes, but beneath the lids that burn from lack of sleep, the image of Katya still lies, clear and bright.Standing up, he offers her his hand, and together they walk across the courtyard and to the main road.