conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a description for a book titled Faces in the Crowd about Mexican, Sidewalks, York with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction? End with the sentence ' --Diego Bez'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The release of the authors first novel coincides with her essay collection, Sidewalks (2014). the authors Mexican heritage and current residence in New York inform the setting of this lyrical tale, told from different perspectives. A woman recounts her efforts to publish an unknown Mexican poet who lived in Harlem in the 1920s; a poet in poor health counts down the days in 1950s Philadelphia. The story lines twist and shift, as they are delivered in flashbacks and fragments, including snippets of poetry, cryptic notes from the unknown poet to various confidantes, and amusing asides when the womans husband discovers her manuscript for the very novel readers have in hand. If the authors essays tend toward offhand, highbrow references to critics and culture, her fiction is shaped by sophisticated plotting, playful characterization, and mesmerizing momentum. Reminiscent of Roberto Bolao and Andr Gide, the author navigates a dynamic, ghostly world between worlds, crisscrossing fact and fiction. Few books are as sure to baffle, surprise, and reward readers as the strange, shifty experiment that is the authors fiction debut. --Diego Bez
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a plot for a book titled Faces in the Crowd about Mexican, Sidewalks, York with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Women's Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Faces in the Crowd (film): Anna Marchant (Milla Jovovich) witnesses a murder by a serial killer Tearjerker Jack.\nJack chases and attacks her, but she eludes him by falling from a bridge.\nAnna wakes from a coma one week later and is diagnosed with prosopagnosia, also known as "face blindness".\nAble to recognize objects but not faces, she works with police detective Sam Kerrest (Julian McMahon) to stop Tearjerker Jack (David Atrakchi) before he can murder her.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Faces in the Crowd
  Bosky rhymes with Zvorsky and whisky. Well, maybe not whisky. And what are "amorous gales"? I think that's meaningless, White.
  Every so often, we left our drinks on the bar and went outside to smoke. White's enthusiasm was contagious. Perhaps mine could be too. So, during one of those pauses, I tried telling him a lie:
  No, I don't think so. This place opened in the thirties or forties and according to your report Owen was in New York earlier than that.
  St. John. How would you translate that beautiful bit of alliteration: "Un no sé qué que quedan balbuciendo"?
  Someone must have spiked my drink while we were outside smoking. When we returned to the bar, I knocked back my whisky and suddenly could hardly understand a word White was saying. I looked on in silence as he talked about William Carlos Williams, Zvorsky, and Pound. He quoted lines from memory and laughed uncontrollably. I laughed with him, unsure what it was all about. A blue halo began to pulsate around his head. I reached out my hand, trying to touch it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about John.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Faces in the Crowd
  Bosky rhymes with Zvorsky and whisky. Well, maybe not whisky. And what are "amorous gales"? I think that's meaningless, White. 
  Every so often, we left our drinks on the bar and went outside to smoke. White's enthusiasm was contagious. Perhaps mine could be too. So, during one of those pauses, I tried telling him a lie:
  No, I don't think so. This place opened in the thirties or forties and according to your report Owen was in New York earlier than that. 
  St. John, let's stick to St. John. How would you translate that beautiful bit of alliteration: "Un no sé qué que quedan balbuciendo"?
  Someone must have spiked my drink while we were outside smoking. When we returned to the bar, I knocked back my whisky and suddenly could hardly understand a word White was saying. I looked on in silence as he talked about William Carlos Williams, Zvorsky, and Pound. He quoted lines from memory and laughed uncontrollably. I laughed with him, unsure what it was all about. A blue halo began to pulsate around his head. I reached out my hand, trying to touch it.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is two more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Homer took off the dark glasses he was wearing and smiled at me—he had teeth like a horse's: big, rounded, and yellow.
  I enjoyed long tertulias during which I could unfold my ideas slowly, cast scorn on my fellow writers, feel that the world fell short of my standards. Amero used to arrange to meet us in a bar. The owner liked to be called "Mexico" (he was a very yankee Yankee, who had fought on the side of Pancho Villa in the Mexican Revolution and for that reason alone believed himself to be a metonym for the country). I rarely went to these things, but when I did, I was in for the long haul. The regulars were Emilio Amero, Gabriel García Maroto, and Federico, who almost always brought Nella Larsen. Sometimes I joined them, as did our friend Z, who, between whiskies, talked about objectivism, a word Federico was incapable of pronouncing. He'd say something like "ohetivicio" and then turn to me, seeking complicity.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The bicycle is not only noble in relation to body rhythms: it is also generous to thought. For anyone with a tendency to digress, the sinuous company of the handlebars is perfect. When ideas are gliding smoothly along in straight lines, the two wheels of the bicycle carry both rider and ideas in tandem. And when some stray thought afflicts the cyclist and blocks the natural flow of his mind, he only has to find a good steep slope and let gravity and the wind work their redemptive alchemy.
  If, in the past, strolling was emblematic of the thinker, and while there may be places where it's still possible to walk about deep in thought, this has little relevance to the inhabitants of most cities nowadays. The urban pedestrian carries the city on his shoulders and is so immersed in the maelstrom that he can't see anything except what is immediately in front of him. Moreover, those who use public transport are restricted to a seat's-worth of privacy and a few meters of visual range. And the motorist, who travels vacuum-packed in his car, unable to hear or smell or see or really exist in the city, is no exception: his soul is blunted at every traffic light, his gaze is the slave of the spectacular hoardings, and the mysterious, anarchic laws of the traffic set the standard for the variations of his mood.
  Of course, the bicycle can be used for other ends besides mere carefree travel: there are delivery men, cycle rickshaw drivers, and even bicycle knife grinders, a species now almost extinct. Not to mention that semialien life form: racing cyclists, sheathed to resemble undernourished scuba divers, sticking their tiny tight asses out as they speed through the city. But in spite of these riders who prize the utility of two wheels above its art, riding a bicycle is one of the few street activities that can still be thought of as an end in itself. The person who distinguishes himself from that purposeful crowd by conceiving it as such should be called a cycleur. And that person—who has discovered cycling to be an occupation with no interest in ultimate outcomes—knows he possesses a strange freedom that can only be compared with that of thinking or writing.
  The difference between flying in an airplane, walking, and riding a bicycle is the same as that between looking through a telescope, a microscope, and a movie camera. Each allows for a particular way of seeing. From an airplane, the world is a distant representation of itself. On two legs, we are condemned to a plethora of microscopic detail. But the person suspended over two wheels, a meter above the ground, can see things as if through the lens of a movie camera: he can linger on minutiae and choose to pass over what is unnecessary.
  Nowadays, only someone sensible enough to own a bicycle can claim to possess an extravagantly free spirit when he puts on a hat, leaves the writing room, or "room of phantoms," and runs down the stairs to unchain his bicycle and ride out into the street.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Nowadays, only someone sensible enough to own a bicycle can claim to possess an extravagantly free spirit when he puts on a hat, leaves the writing room, or "room of phantoms," and runs down the stairs to unchain his bicycle and ride out into the street.. But the person suspended over two wheels, a meter above the ground, can see things as if through the lens of a movie camera: he can linger on minutiae and choose to pass over what is unnecessary. On two legs, we are condemned to a plethora of microscopic detail. From an airplane, the world is a distant representation of itself. Each allows for a particular way of seeing.
  The difference between flying in an airplane, walking, and riding a bicycle is the same as that between looking through a telescope, a microscope, and a movie camera. And that person—who has discovered cycling to be an occupation with no interest in ultimate outcomes—knows he possesses a strange freedom that can only be compared with that of thinking or writing. The person who distinguishes himself from that purposeful crowd by conceiving it as such should be called a cycleur. But in spite of these riders who prize the utility of two wheels above its art, riding a bicycle is one of the few street activities that can still be thought of as an end in itself. Not to mention that semialien life form: racing cyclists, sheathed to resemble undernourished scuba divers, sticking their tiny tight asses out as they speed through the city.
  Of course, the bicycle can be used for other ends besides mere carefree travel: there are delivery men, cycle rickshaw drivers, and even bicycle knife grinders, a species now almost extinct. And the motorist, who travels vacuum-packed in his car, unable to hear or smell or see or really exist in the city, is no exception: his soul is blunted at every traffic light, his gaze is the slave of the spectacular hoardings, and the mysterious, anarchic laws of the traffic set the standard for the variations of his mood. Moreover, those who use public transport are restricted to a seat's-worth of privacy and a few meters of visual range. The urban pedestrian carries the city on his shoulders and is so immersed in the maelstrom that he can't see anything except what is immediately in front of him.
  If, in the past, strolling was emblematic of the thinker, and while there may be places where it's still possible to walk about deep in thought, this has little relevance to the inhabitants of most cities nowadays. And when some stray thought afflicts the cyclist and blocks the natural flow of his mind, he only has to find a good steep slope and let gravity and the wind work their redemptive alchemy. When ideas are gliding smoothly along in straight lines, the two wheels of the bicycle carry both rider and ideas in tandem. For anyone with a tendency to digress, the sinuous company of the handlebars is perfect.The bicycle is not only noble in relation to body rhythms: it is also generous to thought