conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Apache, Many, Considine with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'High Lonesome'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: High Lonesome
  As if nowhere near the town would do for this business, Snerd drove Niggero up near Iuka to a grand reservoir of the Tennessee River, green and rocky like another region of the world completely. They stood at the end of a pier that was condemned to progress, being merely wooden. It was a matter of the heart to Snerd, who had loved the place twenty years and more.
  Now a solid rocket fuel plant, with its visiting executives of all nations, had bought the park and was turning it into a convention resort and would put concrete piers with elegant slips on the water.
  For the two older men, who were bored, both of them, by talks of the apocalypse ever since they had been born, this was their apocalypse and both sensed it, as Niggero got angry along with Snerd talking about the destruction of the old wooden pier and al things of their youth.
  In the next fifteen years, before Snerd died—buried promptly by his wife, who remarried avidly and with great whorish avarice a widowed doctor of their acquaintance—it was said the two men enjoyed friendship such as had hardly been known in the whole north part of the state, and even up through Memphis.
  MANY, TOO MANY, DAYS, NED MAXY HAD STARED OUT A window weeping, fasting, and praying, in his way. In character of both the drunkard and the penitent he had watched life across the street. Now in a healthier time, arising to his work at early hours, he labored at his front window table, peering out now and then at a world that spoke back to him. Not loudly and not a lot, but some. Over the white board fence he'd just painted, and through the leaping wide leaves of his muscadine arbor, he spied shyly like a stranger in town. He put his right arm out to the west and something quiet but with a shape happened so that he could feel hills rolling down to the continental delta of the Mississippi, feel the country under his forearm and elbow. The satisfaction of this almost frightened him.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It hardly matters now what I have paid in coin of words, angry reader, or what I have paid in time and money until a few years ago my breakout, my wives and wealth, my long hard pistol of a car. One wife hardly ever left the car, as I pressed her further and further into relating every morsel, leave nothing out. Hearing enough descriptions of other men, I finally borrowed a personality for my own.
  An altogether different tale. Rest assured however that no lush ecstasy, no minutes of sweet confusion, have ever come near the woman seated in the chair, that green shawl down on her shoulders, bare, and the long bun aloft, nearing her face. She was so startled as she prepared her mouth for it, wider and wider. After that, ruin and our haunted fellowship.
  But I remember she was dazzled looking up in the curtains at the bald man's approach through a raised single drape colored purple. She wore an amazed smile on her face suddenly as she complied.
  After all, my life has been a slow and mistimed one, but it is good, good, I testify, even at the bottom of my melancholy. I dare you to argue with me, digusted counselors. You never had a joy nearly so fine.
  I WAS IN NORTH DAKOTA AROUND THE SAC BASE IN MARCH. The wind blew hard across the beetfields and the tarmac, wherever it was. I had done my duty in Grand Forks and we talked in a bar. She and her girlfriend were both in cowboy boots. The woman I was interested in had very excellent calves. Her face was high cheekboned with huge eyes like china marbles. Her forehead was touched around by brown bangs that made my stomach ache. She was a Florida beauty, Tallahassee, just a slight quarter inch heavy with winter flesh, that's all, a slight quarter inch.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: One wife hardly ever left the car, as I pressed her further and further into relating every morsel, leave nothing out. Hearing enough descriptions of other men, I finally borrowed a personality for my own.
  An altogether different tale. Rest assured however that no lush ecstasy, no minutes of sweet confusion, have ever come near the woman seated in the chair, that green shawl down on her shoulders, bare, and the long bun aloft, nearing her face. She was so startled as she prepared her mouth for it, wider and wider. After that, ruin and our haunted fellowship.
  But I remember she was dazzled looking up in the curtains at the bald man's approach through a raised single drape colored purple. She wore an amazed smile on her face suddenly as she complied.
  After all, my life has been a slow and mistimed one, but it is good, good, I testify, even at the bottom of my melancholy. I dare you to argue with me, digusted counselors. You never had a joy nearly so fine.
  I WAS IN NORTH DAKOTA AROUND THE SAC BASE IN MARCH. The wind blew hard across the beetfields and the tarmac, wherever it was. I had done my duty in Grand Forks and we talked in a bar. She and her girlfriend were both in cowboy boots. The woman I was interested in had very excellent calves. Her face was high cheekboned with huge eyes like china marbles. Her forehead was touched around by brown bangs that made my stomach ache. She was a Florida beauty, Tallahassee, just a slight quarter inch heavy with winter flesh, that's all, a slight quarter inch.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last five paragraphs. Start with the sentence 'A couple of the brothers went out on his trail'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A couple of the brothers went out on his trail. They said he began in a saloon near the seawall in Waveland.
  Could it be as simple as that my uncle saw, in his nervous rage and unnatural mood, that girl calling me down the road to sin, and he exploded? That he saw my fate coming to me in my teens, as his had, when he killed the man? Or was he needing a drink so badly that none of this mattered? I don't know. After that bender he didn't much follow up on any great concern for me. Maybe he gave up on himself.
  It took seven years more. My father came and got me at my apartment in the college town and told me about his death, in a hospital over in that county. My father had white hair by then, and I remember watching his head bowed over, his arm over the shoulders of his own, their mother, my grandmother, with her own white-haired head bowed in grief no mother should bear. My grandmother repeated over and over the true fact that Peter was always "doing things, always his projects, always moving places." His hands were busy, his feet were swift, his wife was bountifully well off, forever.
  A man back in the '20s came to town and started a poker game. Men gathered and drank. Peter lost his money and started a fight. The man took a chair and repeatedly ground it into his face while Peter was on the floor. Peter went out into the town, found a pistol, came back, and shot the man. The brothers went about influencing the jury, noting that the victim was trash, an out-of-towner. The judge agreed. The victim was sentenced to remain dead. Peter was let go.
  I've talked to my nephew about this. For years now I have dreamed I killed somebody. The body has been hidden, but certain people know I am guilty, and they show up and I know, deep within, what they are wanting, what this is all about. My nephew was nodding the whole while I was telling him this. He has dreamed this very thing, for years.