conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Garden, Elizabethan with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Virgin in the Garden'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for the book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Virgin in the Garden
  When she came out again, she had almost no money for the unsolved pudding, and Wilkie was waiting for her on the pavement.
  Wilkie began to laugh. He laughed a great deal. Frederica began to laugh, somewhat hysterically. When they had stopped laughing, Wilkie said, go on, get your nightie and toothbrush, and a swimsuit and a towel.
  Frederica went to get her nightie. Edmund Wilkie, a tidy-minded man in a less than wholly practical way, made a neat pyramidal pile of the dinner ingredients in the middle of the kitchen table. Frederica came back, with her things in a rucksack, and Wilkie, smiling slightly, said,
  Frederica did as she was told. Winifred sounded unbothered by her movements and the note was delivered, by Wilkie, to the school porter, who said gloomily that it was 'ard to get in touch with Mr Wedderburn, these days. Good, said Wilkie, and went back to Frederica and the motorbike.
  It was now late afternoon. Wilkie said that they would stop and buy a crash helmet for Frederica at the next big garage, and that if she didn't mind him giving her a few tips about riding motorbikes, they would get on better, safer, and faster. For instance, she was to lean forward, not sway about, hold him tightly about the waist and move with him. That would anyway be good practice. They would go out through Calverley, east across the moors, south through Goathland and down to Scarborough, where he reckoned they could be before dinner. Frederica said something awful had once happened to her at Goathland. Wilkie said in that case it would be good for her oversensitive psyche to speed through it on a bike, and that she could tell him about it, if she felt it would do her good, in Scarborough.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She put them up. Wilkie touched her breasts, which reminded her of Crowe, and murmured something about "erectile tissue", a biological phenomenon she had already decided was overvalued. He continued to pump efficiently up and down. She continued pliable enough, concentrating on not letting go. People's buttocks, thought Frederica, were ridiculous, a ridiculous mixture of wobble and muscle. She laughed.
  Frederica thought, with a moment of nausea, of Lawrence's descriptions of Constance Chatterley's florid spreading circles of satisfaction. What she had was vertical flickering lines of local tickling, interrupted electric messages which she hastily earthed. Wilkie stopped talking and began to go faster. Frederica stared at his face with interest. His mouth was drooping open, his eyes closed, his breath heavy. His little fat belly was hot and sweaty on hers. After a time, he went very fast indeed, suddenly gave a loud, very private groan, and dropped his head, very heavily for a moment, on her breast, looking tragic and drained. Frederica felt a kind of fluttering and wincing inside, his, or hers, she wasn't sure; there was also some pain, and a hot throb. Wilkie whipped his penis neatly and smartly out, turned over to attend to himself, and fell back on the pillows, turned away.
  He seemed to be drifting into sleep. Frederica stared at the back of his hair, and reflected that she had never known him less well, or felt less close to him, than now, since they first began to talk. She had learned something. She had learned that you could do – that – in a reasonably companionable and courteous way with no invasion of your privacy, no shift in your solitude. You could sleep all night, with a strange man, and see the back only of his head, and be more self-contained than anywhere else. This was a useful thing to know. It removed the awful either/or from the condition of women as she had seen it. Either love, passion, sex and those things, or the life of the mind, ambition, solitude, the others. There was a third way: you could be alone and not alone in a bed, if you made no fuss. She too would turn away and go to sleep.
  Blood was rising and puddling round Frederica, her thighs were scarlet, it was creeping in a puddle up her back. Even the collected Wilkie blanched a little at this sight, and asked if she felt faint.
  He put his head down, and said it seemed not to be gushing, or even running, very noticeably. He said he would make a pad of a bathtowel and she would sit on that, and he would deal with the bed.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He said he would make a pad of a bathtowel and she would sit on that, and he would deal with the bed. Wilkie touched her breasts, which reminded her of Crowe, and murmured something about "erectile tissue", a biological phenomenon she had already decided was overvalued. He continued to pump efficiently up and down. She continued pliable enough, concentrating on not letting go. People's buttocks, thought Frederica, were ridiculous, a ridiculous mixture of wobble and muscle. She laughed.
  Frederica thought, with a moment of nausea, of Lawrence's descriptions of Constance Chatterley's florid spreading circles of satisfaction. What she had was vertical flickering lines of local tickling, interrupted electric messages which she hastily earthed. Wilkie stopped talking and began to go faster. Frederica stared at his face with interest. His mouth was drooping open, his eyes closed, his breath heavy. His little fat belly was hot and sweaty on hers. After a time, he went very fast indeed, suddenly gave a loud, very private groan, and dropped his head, very heavily for a moment, on her breast, looking tragic and drained. Frederica felt a kind of fluttering and wincing inside, his, or hers, she wasn't sure; there was also some pain, and a hot throb. Wilkie whipped his penis neatly and smartly out, turned over to attend to himself, and fell back on the pillows, turned away.
  He seemed to be drifting into sleep. Frederica stared at the back of his hair, and reflected that she had never known him less well, or felt less close to him, than now, since they first began to talk. She had learned something. She had learned that you could do – that – in a reasonably companionable and courteous way with no invasion of your privacy, no shift in your solitude. You could sleep all night, with a strange man, and see the back only of his head, and be more self-contained than anywhere else. This was a useful thing to know. It removed the awful either/or from the condition of women as she had seen it. Either love, passion, sex and those things, or the life of the mind, ambition, solitude, the others. There was a third way: you could be alone and not alone in a bed, if you made no fuss. She too would turn away and go to sleep.
  Blood was rising and puddling round Frederica, her thighs were scarlet, it was creeping in a puddle up her back. Even the collected Wilkie blanched a little at this sight, and asked if she felt faint.
  He put his head down, and said it seemed not to be gushing, or even running, very noticeably.She put them up.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Frederica's husband's violent streak has turned on her. She flees to London with their young son and gets a teaching job in an art school, where poets and painters are denying the value of the past and fostering dreams of rebellion, which hinge upon a strange, charismatic figure, the unkempt and near-naked Jude Mason.
  In this collection of fairy tales for adults, the title story describes the relationship between a world renowned scholar of the art of storytelling and the marvelous being that lives in a bottle found in an Istanbul bazaar. Byatt renders this interaction of the natural and supernatural not only convincing, but inevitable.
  A beautiful ice maiden risks her life when she falls in love with a desert prince. Striving to master color and line, a painter solves his artistic problems when a magical water snake appears in his pool. Elegantly crafted and suffused with wisdom, these tales are a testament to a writer at the height of her powers.
  Whether she is writing about George Eliot or Sylvia Plath, Victorian spiritual malaise or Toni Morrison, or the ambitions that underlie her own fiction, Byatt manages to be challenging, entertaining, and unflinchingly committed to the alliance of literature and life.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She flees to London with their young son and gets a teaching job in an art school, where poets and painters are denying the value of the past and fostering dreams of rebellion, which hinge upon a strange, charismatic figure, the unkempt and near-naked Jude Mason.
  In this collection of fairy tales for adults, the title story describes the relationship between a world renowned scholar of the art of storytelling and the marvelous being that lives in a bottle found in an Istanbul bazaar. Byatt renders this interaction of the natural and supernatural not only convincing, but inevitable.
  A beautiful ice maiden risks her life when she falls in love with a desert prince. Striving to master color and line, a painter solves his artistic problems when a magical water snake appears in his pool. Elegantly crafted and suffused with wisdom, these tales are a testament to a writer at the height of her powers.
  Whether she is writing about George Eliot or Sylvia Plath, Victorian spiritual malaise or Toni Morrison, or the ambitions that underlie her own fiction, Byatt manages to be challenging, entertaining, and unflinchingly committed to the alliance of literature and life.