conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a description for a book titled The Tree of Man about Stan, Parker, Australian with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Stan Parker, with only a horse and a dog for company journeys to a remote patch of land he has inherited in the Australian hills. Once the land is cleared and a rudimentary house built, he brings his wife Amy to the wilderness. Together they face lives of joy and sorrow as they struggle against the environment.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Tree of Man
  Stretching himself finally on the creaking seat of the frail car, till his bones cracked, he would long to express himself by some formal act of recognition, give a shape to his knowledge, or express the great simplicities in simple, luminous words for people to see. But of course he could not.
  There were individuals who said Stan Parker had gone a bit queer from the war, after all he had been through, and him a husband and a father. Now these people began to avoid him. He had never been a talkative man, except on direct practical matters. His advice had been good. But they preferred to take their troubles elsewhere, rather than have his eyes discover any cracks in their demeanour. Stan Parker was queer.
  Once he had told his boy to get into the car, and said that they would go for a drive. Where? Well, just to those parts to which he had grown attached, he could not say it was anywhere particular. The boy was naturally embarrassed, and sat looking at the sober speedometer or gloomily out at the side of the road. He did not like to be with his father, anyway.
  But Stan was full of hope. Now I must speak to this boy, he felt and convey to him something of what I know; it will be easier if we do it like this; and already he had greater confidence, seeing the sandy bushland, in which stood only the essentials of tree and shrub, the absorbed mounds of anthills, and the black sticks pointing in different directions on the ground.
  Although he had never seen a city he longed for it. Much of his unhappiness was due to the fact that he had not discovered the herd.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She did genuinely become sad in the dark room, though it was for herself, that she was burying. The scents of little girls' flowers on sparrows' graves brought the tears to her eyes. Or nightlights beneath which she was suffocating, before a mother, with those simple, primary features that faces wear in the beginning, gave her breath back. Thelma Forsdyke sat crumbling cake, the big yellow one that had been made too hastily, it had holes. There were many bits of herself that she would have broken off and discarded, if it had been possible that these would not still add up.
  This decoration had got upon his face out of turn. Actually he was startled that anyone should suspect him of a taste that suited him so badly. What could this woman his mother-in-law know about him? Or his wife? Or he himself even, in that strange room, from any corner of which an unsuspected habit might arise. The glass stand was winking under a cloud of scones.
  I must remember to ask her about herself, said Thelma, before we go, but remember, it is enough to ask, people do not or are not able to tell what is flickering in them. Asking is a kindness, though.
  Then the solicitor drew himself up inside his suit of good English material, a flecked tweed, that will stand instead of virility at a pinch, and said, 'And how is the other one, Mrs Parker, your boy, the one I have never met?'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Then the solicitor drew himself up inside his suit of good English material, a flecked tweed, that will stand instead of virility at a pinch, and said, 'And how is the other one, Mrs Parker, your boy, the one I have never met?'. Asking is a kindness, though.
  I must remember to ask her about herself, said Thelma, before we go, but remember, it is enough to ask, people do not or are not able to tell what is flickering in them. The glass stand was winking under a cloud of scones. What could this woman his mother-in-law know about him? Or his wife? Or he himself even, in that strange room, from any corner of which an unsuspected habit might arise. Actually he was startled that anyone should suspect him of a taste that suited him so badly.
  This decoration had got upon his face out of turn. There were many bits of herself that she would have broken off and discarded, if it had been possible that these would not still add up. Thelma Forsdyke sat crumbling cake, the big yellow one that had been made too hastily, it had holes. Or nightlights beneath which she was suffocating, before a mother, with those simple, primary features that faces wear in the beginning, gave her breath back. The scents of little girls' flowers on sparrows' graves brought the tears to her eyes.She did genuinely become sad in the dark room, though it was for herself, that she was burying
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' So that, in the end, there was no end.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He would write a poem, he said, dragging his head from side to side in the sand, but not yet, and what? He was tortured by impotence, and at the same time the possibility of his unborn poem. The crimson sky drifting on his face, and the purple snakes of trees. He would write a poem of death. Long words wired for the occasion, marble words of dictionaries, paper words in rat traps would decorate his poem. He was a bit frightened of it. But of course he did not believe in it, not really. He could not believe in death. Or only in passing through a dark hall, in which it is an old overcoat that puts its empty arms around him. Then death is faintly credible because it is still smelling of life.
  So he would write a poem of life, of all life, of what he did not know, but knew. Of all people, even the closed ones, who do open on asphalt and in trains. He would make the trains run on silver lines, the people still dreaming on their shelves, who will wake up soon enough and feel for their money and their teeth. Little bits of coloured thought, that he had suddenly, and would look at for a long time, would go into his poem, and urgent telegrams, and the pieces of torn letters that fall out of metal baskets. He would put the windows that he had looked inside. Sleep, of course, that blue eiderdown that divides life from life. His poem was growing. It would have the smell of bread, and the rather grey wisdom of youth, and his grandmother's kumquats, and girls with yellow plaits exchanging love-talk behind their hands, and the blood thumping like a drum, and red apples, and a little wisp of white cloud that will swell into a horse and trample the whole sky once it gets the wind inside it.
  As his poem mounted in him he could not bear it, or rather, what was still his impotence. And after a bit, not knowing what else to do but scribble on the already scribbled trees, he went back to the house in which his grandfather had died, taking with him his greatness, which was still a secret.
  So that in the end there were the trees. The boy walking through them with his head drooping as he increased in stature. Putting out shoots of green thought. So that, in the end, there was no end.