conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is a plot for a book about Bruno, Keith, Gambler's entitled A Gambler's Anatomy?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Gambler's Anatomy: Alexander Bruno is a gambler who encounters a high school friend, Keith Stolarsky, who has made a fortune in real estate.\nAfter their meeting, Keith agrees to pay for an expensive surgery Bruno needs to survive, and later becomes Bruno's romantic rival.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first three paragraphs for this book? Start with the sentence 'A Gambler's Anatomy
  It was there when he woke up'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Gambler's Anatomy
  It was there when he woke up. Presumably also when he slept. The blot. Standing alone at the back of the sparsely populated ferry to Kladow, mercifully sheltered behind safety glass against the chill of the lake at evening, Alexander Bruno could no longer deny the blot that had swollen in his vision and was with him always, the vacancy now deforming his view of the receding shore. It forced him to peer around its edges for glimpses of the mansions and biergartens, the strip of sand at the century-old lido, the tarpaulined sailboats. He'd come to Berlin, half the circumference of the world, two weeks ago, whether to elude his fate or to embrace it he couldn't know.
  Under the circumstances of Bruno's dread, the slide of the S-Bahn through the endless roster of stations from Westend to Wannsee had seemed as long as his voyage from Singapore to Berlin. The German city, with its graffiti and construction sites, its desultory strips of parkland and naked pink water pipes, had its own sprawl and circumference. Berlin wended through time. On the S-Bahn toward Wannsee the tall girls in black leggings with bicycles and earbuds, so prevalent in Charlottenburg and Mitte, had thinned out, replaced by dour Prussian businessmen and staring grandmother types, slouching home with briefcases and shopping bags. By the time of the ferry there was little to defeat the irresistible illusion that the city was newly vanquished and carved into sectors, that the prevailing silence and gloom derived from remorse and privations not seventy years past but fresh as smoldering rubble.
  When Bruno had called to ask his host for directions to Kladow, the rich man told him that the ferry across the lake at evening was an experience he shouldn't miss. Bruno, the German had said, should keep his eye out on the right for the famous Strandbad Wannsee, Berlin's traditional resort beach, and, on the left, for the Wannsee-Konferenz villa. The site of the Final Solution's planning, though Bruno had needed this legacy explained by his hotel's concierge. Of course, scanning for it now, Bruno had no way of distinguishing the site from other mansions arrayed on the western shore, each of which heaved into the void at the center of his sight.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Bruno spent the next days under that tented sheet returning to himself. "Hospital" turned out to represent a punctuated tedium, the recurrence of blood pressure and temperature checks, the placement and emptying of bedpans and painful switching of IV lines from the crook of one elbow to the other, and the switching of nurses as day and night were destroyed and replaced with tripartite shifts. These women, mostly matronly blacks, treated the burned boy with affectionate exasperation, as an object blockading their efficiency and a confidant in their war on the obtuse and elusive doctors.
  After a five-day stand in the ICU, his crisis passed, and Bruno had been moved to a quiet, ugly ward, into a room with an empty bed for a companion. The rate of attention slowed to a crawl, days yawning into chasms. Bruno succumbed to boredom, but there was something else as well. Though June appeared at his bedside, he was more often alone. His school friends weren't allowed to visit, if they'd even learned of his accident during summer break. The nurses weren't interested in him, and Bruno's burn injuries kept him bedridden, incapable of exploring the ward. Daytime television—soap operas, talk shows, game shows—was useless to fill the void. For the first time, it felt, Bruno was away from the babble of other children, or of June and her friends or boyfriends, who struck him suddenly as no different from children. With the toppling of the coffeepot he'd lucked out of his regular state, that of the intrusion of other voices into his mind.
  By the accident of his injury, at eleven, Bruno had floated loose of the prison of his childhood, like an inmate of an open-roofed cell swimming to freedom in a flood.
  He heard the talk the nurses conducted over his head, and the muttered remarks of the doctors as they glanced at the clipboard attached to the bed frame at his feet. None of it was directed at Bruno's attention, nor was it concealed. Bruno's invisibility at the center of this set of actions freed him to perceive his own outline, possibly for the first time. Emptied of his involuntary self, Bruno could refill the container with whatever interested him. He could manage the thoughts and feelings of others, those things that had formerly overridden his boundary, and manage which of his own thoughts and feelings leaked out for exhibition. He only had to understand his curse as a gift to control it. And, unlike a curse, a gift could be handed back or abandoned.
  A nun came to his bedside. She seemed old to Bruno, at least by comparison to his mother, though the nun would probably only have been in her forties, he'd think later. She wore jeans and white tennis shoes and a cotton blouse with her brown-and-white habit, and a large pendant cross at her breasts. The nun wanted to know where his parents were, and Bruno explained that he had only a mother, and that she was "working"—he didn't know what June was doing with her days while he was in the hospital. Based on how she spent them in Bruno's company, no guess was safe.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "Hospital" turned out to represent a punctuated tedium, the recurrence of blood pressure and temperature checks, the placement and emptying of bedpans and painful switching of IV lines from the crook of one elbow to the other, and the switching of nurses as day and night were destroyed and replaced with tripartite shifts. These women, mostly matronly blacks, treated the burned boy with affectionate exasperation, as an object blockading their efficiency and a confidant in their war on the obtuse and elusive doctors.
  After a five-day stand in the ICU, his crisis passed, and Bruno had been moved to a quiet, ugly ward, into a room with an empty bed for a companion. The rate of attention slowed to a crawl, days yawning into chasms. Bruno succumbed to boredom, but there was something else as well. Though June appeared at his bedside, he was more often alone. His school friends weren't allowed to visit, if they'd even learned of his accident during summer break. The nurses weren't interested in him, and Bruno's burn injuries kept him bedridden, incapable of exploring the ward. Daytime television—soap operas, talk shows, game shows—was useless to fill the void. For the first time, it felt, Bruno was away from the babble of other children, or of June and her friends or boyfriends, who struck him suddenly as no different from children. With the toppling of the coffeepot he'd lucked out of his regular state, that of the intrusion of other voices into his mind.
  By the accident of his injury, at eleven, Bruno had floated loose of the prison of his childhood, like an inmate of an open-roofed cell swimming to freedom in a flood.
  He heard the talk the nurses conducted over his head, and the muttered remarks of the doctors as they glanced at the clipboard attached to the bed frame at his feet. None of it was directed at Bruno's attention, nor was it concealed. Bruno's invisibility at the center of this set of actions freed him to perceive his own outline, possibly for the first time. Emptied of his involuntary self, Bruno could refill the container with whatever interested him. He could manage the thoughts and feelings of others, those things that had formerly overridden his boundary, and manage which of his own thoughts and feelings leaked out for exhibition. He only had to understand his curse as a gift to control it. And, unlike a curse, a gift could be handed back or abandoned.
  A nun came to his bedside. She seemed old to Bruno, at least by comparison to his mother, though the nun would probably only have been in her forties, he'd think later. She wore jeans and white tennis shoes and a cotton blouse with her brown-and-white habit, and a large pendant cross at her breasts. The nun wanted to know where his parents were, and Bruno explained that he had only a mother, and that she was "working"—he didn't know what June was doing with her days while he was in the hospital. Based on how she spent them in Bruno's company, no guess was safe.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There was nowhere safer than Singapore in the morning. Yet it was no more dangerous at night. That was what made it Singapore! This permanent marvel amused the tall figure in the white linen suit as he strode across the Sentosa Gateway, past Brani Island, into the city, gripping the stone in his pocket, otherwise unburdened. He needed sleep, yes. But he thought he might first cross along the viaduct and turn into Labrador Villa Road. He wished to see the birds there.
  It was reason enough to be content that Edgar Falk had settled here in Singapore, at Sentosa Cove: the birds. The giant cormorants—one, at least, always seemed to be waiting there. His shorebird, the only animal that followed him everywhere he went in the world, beginning at Stinson Beach. He could rename himself after the bird, even. Alexander B. Cormorant.
  In practice, he was a surgeon, delving through faces to what lay underneath, to look out through the eyes. There, to learn the only important thing about most men: what cards they held. He might even call himself Noah Behringer, for amusement's sake. He wondered if Edgar Falk would recognize that name, or whether it would be lost on him...
  Or a Vietnam vet, employed as a hydrotherapy attendant at Alta Bates, and looking on as a helpless white kid spunked up a whirlpool, mess you'd be obliged to clean up, damn. If he quested back he might even retrieve the man's name...