conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs, Arts & Literature?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Confessions of An English Opium Eater'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first two paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Confessions of An English Opium Eater
  In 1809, he moved into the Wordsworths' former home, the cottage at Town End (later known as Dove Cottage), and lived there for more than a decade. It was during this time that De Quincey met and courted a young local woman, Margaret Simpson. There was much scandal in Grasmere when she bore him a son in 1816 and most of De Quincey's friends regarded him as ruined when he married her the following year, though the marriage ultimately proved a happy one. De Quincey's personal relationship with the Wordsworth circle gradually soured for many reasons, including their disapproval of his opium habit, but he never lost his admiration for Wordsworth's poetry, even if he eventually came to find some fault with the man himself.
  Besides his friendship with Wordsworth, the other profoundly influential relationship De Quincey formed during his Oxford days was with opium, whose psychoactive properties he first noted and began to enjoy when he took it on the recommendation of a fellow Worcester student for pain in his face. While at Oxford, De Quincey managed to spend a good deal of time elsewhere, including London, where he discovered the joys of listening to opera and wandering the streets while under the influence of laudanum (opium dissolved in alcohol; see the Appendix for more detailed information about opiates). De Quincey's eventual habituation to the drug has been blamed upon as many of his misfortunes as it has been blamed for. It is true that, like his fellow opium-addicted writer and sometime friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge, De Quincey never quite fulfilled the extraordinary promise of his youth – at least not to his own satisfaction or that of his family and friends. Although he always dreamed of being a significant philosopher in the mould of Immanuel Kant, whose works deeply influenced his thought, he dragged out most of his adult life as a short-deadline magazine contributor on the run from creditors. But given that our understanding of the phenomena subsumed under the rubric of 'addiction' is still far from perfect, it is difficult to say what in this whole drama was cause, what was effect, and what was neither.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: So passed away from earth one out of those sisters that made up my nursery playmates; and so did my acquaintance (if such it could be called) commence with mortality. Yet, in fact, I knew little more of mortality than that Jane had disappeared. She had gone away; but, perhaps, she would come back. Happy interval of heaven-born ignorance! Gracious immunity of infancy from sorrow disproportioned to its strength! I was sad for Jane's absence. But still in my heart I trusted that she would come again. Summer and winter came again – crocuses and roses; why not little Jane?
  On the day after my sister's death, whilst the sweet temple of her brain was yet unviolated by human scrutiny, I formed my own scheme for seeing her once more. Not for the world would I have made this known, nor have suffered a witness to accompany me. I had never heard of feelings that take the name of 'sentimental,' nor dreamed of such a possibility. But grief even in a child hates the light, and shrinks from human eyes. The house was large; there were two staircases; and by one of these I knew that about noon, when all would be quiet, I could steal up into her chamber. I imagine that it was exactly high noon when I reached the chamber door; it was locked; but the key was not taken away. Entering, I closed the door so softly, that, although it opened upon a hall which ascended through all the stories, no echo ran along the silent walls. Then turning round, I sought my sister's face. But the bed had been moved; and the back was now turned. Nothing met my eyes but one large window wide open, through which the sun of midsummer at noonday was showering down torrents of splendour. The weather was dry, the sky was cloudless, the blue depths seemed the express types of infinity; and it was not possible for eye to behold or for heart to conceive any symbols more pathetic of life and the glory of life.
  Oh* flight of the solitary child to the solitary God – flight from the ruined corpse to the throne that could not be ruined! – how rich wert thou in truth for after years. Rapture of grief, that, being too mighty for a child to sustain, foundest a happy oblivion in a heaven-born sleep, and within that sleep didst conceal a dream, whose meanings in after years, when slowly I deciphered, suddenly there flashed upon me new light; and even by the grief of a child, as I will show you reader hereafter, were confounded the falsehoods of philosophers.*
  But yet for the same reason which makes the grief more exquisite, generally for such a loss it is likely to be more perishable. Wherever the image, visually or audibly, of the lost person is more essential to the life of the grief, there the grief will be more transitory.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Wherever the image, visually or audibly, of the lost person is more essential to the life of the grief, there the grief will be more transitory. Yet, in fact, I knew little more of mortality than that Jane had disappeared. She had gone away; but, perhaps, she would come back. Happy interval of heaven-born ignorance! Gracious immunity of infancy from sorrow disproportioned to its strength! I was sad for Jane's absence. But still in my heart I trusted that she would come again. Summer and winter came again – crocuses and roses; why not little Jane?
  On the day after my sister's death, whilst the sweet temple of her brain was yet unviolated by human scrutiny, I formed my own scheme for seeing her once more. Not for the world would I have made this known, nor have suffered a witness to accompany me. I had never heard of feelings that take the name of 'sentimental,' nor dreamed of such a possibility. But grief even in a child hates the light, and shrinks from human eyes. The house was large; there were two staircases; and by one of these I knew that about noon, when all would be quiet, I could steal up into her chamber. I imagine that it was exactly high noon when I reached the chamber door; it was locked; but the key was not taken away. Entering, I closed the door so softly, that, although it opened upon a hall which ascended through all the stories, no echo ran along the silent walls. Then turning round, I sought my sister's face. But the bed had been moved; and the back was now turned. Nothing met my eyes but one large window wide open, through which the sun of midsummer at noonday was showering down torrents of splendour. The weather was dry, the sky was cloudless, the blue depths seemed the express types of infinity; and it was not possible for eye to behold or for heart to conceive any symbols more pathetic of life and the glory of life.
  Oh* flight of the solitary child to the solitary God – flight from the ruined corpse to the throne that could not be ruined! – how rich wert thou in truth for after years. Rapture of grief, that, being too mighty for a child to sustain, foundest a happy oblivion in a heaven-born sleep, and within that sleep didst conceal a dream, whose meanings in after years, when slowly I deciphered, suddenly there flashed upon me new light; and even by the grief of a child, as I will show you reader hereafter, were confounded the falsehoods of philosophers.*
  But yet for the same reason which makes the grief more exquisite, generally for such a loss it is likely to be more perishable.So passed away from earth one out of those sisters that made up my nursery playmates; and so did my acquaintance (if such it could be called) commence with mortality.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last three paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: De Quincey was a great admirer of Coleridge's work and became personally acquainted with him in 1807.
  However, the phrase is more similar in sentiment, if not quite as similar in wording, to the penultimate line of 'Character of a Happy Life' by Sir Henry Wotton (1568–1639), the final stanza of which reads:
  His father, Agamemnon, sacrificed Orestes' sister Iphigenia at the behest of the gods; his mother, Clytemnestra, avenged that death by killing Agamemnon; and Orestes in turn avenged his father by killing his mother. De Quincey thus represents himself as alienated, perpetually tortured and with only one ally, his wife Margaret.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Orestes, Furies, Electra, tormented, avenging.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: De Quincey was a great admirer of Coleridge's work and became personally acquainted with him in 1807. 
  However, the phrase is more similar in sentiment, if not quite as similar in wording, to the penultimate line of 'Character of a Happy Life' by Sir Henry Wotton (1568–1639), the final stanza of which reads:
  His father, Agamemnon, sacrificed Orestes' sister Iphigenia at the behest of the gods; his mother, Clytemnestra, avenged that death by killing Agamemnon; and Orestes in turn avenged his father by killing his mother. Orestes is tormented day and night by the hideous avenging Furies, and his sole comfort through it all is the support of his sister Electra. De Quincey thus represents himself as alienated, perpetually tortured and with only one ally, his wife Margaret.