conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Brooke, Graceful, Brookes with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Lost Daughter'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled The Lost Daughter about York, University, Daralyse with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Literary
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A recent graduate of New York University, Daralyse R. the author has a bachelor's degree in arts and sciences. She majored in English literature and religious studies.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled The Lost Daughter about Nina, Leda, Reed with the genre: Humor & Entertainment, Humor
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The arresting third novel from pseudonymous Italian novelist the author (<I>Troubling Love</I>) pursues a divorced, 47-year-old academic's deeply conflicted feelings about motherhood to their frightening core. While on vacation by herself on the Ionian coast, Leda feels contentedly disburdened of her two 20-something daughters, who have moved to their father's city of Toronto. She's soon engrossed in watching the daily drama of Nina, a young mother, with her young daughter, Elena (along with Elena's doll, Nani), at the seashore. Surrounded by proprietary Neapolitan relatives and absorbed in her daughter's care, Nina at first strikes Leda as the perfect mother, reminding herself of when she was a new and hopeful parent. Leda's eventual acquaintance with Nina yields a disturbing confession and sets in motion a series of events that threatens to wreck, or save, the integrity of Nina's family. the author's prose is stunningly candid, direct and unforgettable. From simple elements, she builds a powerful tale of hope and regret. <I>(May)</I> <BR>Copyright &copy; Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: All rights reserved. While on vacation by herself on the Ionian coast, Leda feels contentedly disburdened of her two 20-something daughters, who have moved to their father's city of Toronto. She's soon engrossed in watching the daily drama of Nina, a young mother, with her young daughter, Elena (along with Elena's doll, Nani), at the seashore. Surrounded by proprietary Neapolitan relatives and absorbed in her daughter's care, Nina at first strikes Leda as the perfect mother, reminding herself of when she was a new and hopeful parent. Leda's eventual acquaintance with Nina yields a disturbing confession and sets in motion a series of events that threatens to wreck, or save, the integrity of Nina's family. the author's prose is stunningly candid, direct and unforgettable. From simple elements, she builds a powerful tale of hope and regret. <I>(May)</I> <BR>Copyright &copy; Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc.The arresting third novel from pseudonymous Italian novelist the author (<I>Troubling Love</I>) pursues a divorced, 47-year-old academic's deeply conflicted feelings about motherhood to their frightening core.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Lost Daughter
  Marta was playing under the table, at my feet. Bianca was sitting next to me, pretending to read and write, imitating my gestures, my frowns. I don't know what happened. Maybe she had said something to me and I hadn't responded; maybe she only wanted to start one of her games, which were always a little rough; suddenly, while I was distracted by a search for words that never seemed logical enough, or apt, I felt a slap on the ear.
  It wasn't a hard blow, Bianca was five, she couldn't really hurt me. But I was startled, I felt a burning pain, it was as if a sharp black line had, with a clean stroke, cut off thoughts that were already hard to maintain—that were very distant from the kitchen where we were sitting, from the sauce for dinner that was bubbling on the stove, from the clock that was advancing, consuming the narrow space of time that I had to devote to my desire for research, invention, approval, position, money of my own to spend. I hit the child without thinking about it, in a flash, not hard, my fingertips barely touching her cheek.
  Don't do that, I said in a pseudo pedantic tone, and she, smiling, tried to hit me again, certain that at last a game had begun. But I was first and hit her, a little harder, don't you dare ever again, Bianca, and she laughed, hoarsely this time, with a faint bewilderment in her eyes, and I hit her again, still with the tips of my outstretched fingers, again and again, you don't hit Mama, you must never do that, and when, finally, she realized that I wasn't playing, she began to cry desperately.
  I feel the child's tears under my fingertips, I'm still hitting her. I do it gently, the gesture is under my control but decisive, and the intervals are getting smaller: not a possibly educational act but real violence, contained but real. Out, I tell her without raising my voice, out, Mama has to work, and I take her solidly by the arm, drag her into the hall, she cries, screams, tries again to hit me, and I leave her there and close the door behind me with a firm shove, I don't want to see you anymore.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I looked at him ironically as with expert motions he removed the guts of that lifeless creature and then scraped away scales as if to take from them their sheen, their color. I thought that probably his friends were waiting at the bar to find out if his undertaking had been successful. I thought that now I had made the mistake of letting him come in and that, if my hypothesis was solid, he would stay, one way or another, long enough to make plausible what he would then recount. Males always have something pathetic about them, at every age. A fragile arrogance, a frightened audacity. I no longer know, today, if they ever aroused in me love or only an affectionate sympathy for their weaknesses. Giovanni, I thought, whatever happened, would boast of his prodigious erection with the stranger, without drugs and despite his age.
  He attended to the frying skillfully, his words tumbling out nervously, as if his thoughts were moving too fast for the structure of the sentences. He praised the past, when there were more fish in the sea and the fish were really good. He spoke of his wife, who had died three years earlier, and his children.
  I opened the only bottle of wine I had, a red from the supermarket, and we ate the fish on the table in the living room, sitting beside one another on the couch. It was astonishingly good. I began to talk a lot, feeling reassured by the sound of my voice. I talked about work, about my daughters—mainly about them. I said: they didn't give me many headaches. They were good students, always promoted, they graduated with high marks, they'll become excellent scientists, like their father. They live in Canada now, one is there—more or less—to complete her studies and the older one for work. I'm pleased, I've done my duty as a mother, I've kept them safe from all the dangers of today.
  I talked and he listened. Every so often he said something about himself. His older son was a surveyor, his wife worked at the post office; the second, a daughter, had married a good fellow, the one who had the newsstand in the square; the third was his cross, he wouldn't study, made a little money only in the summer, taking tourists out in his boat; the youngest, a daughter, was a bit behind in her studies, she had had a serious illness, but now she was about to graduate from university, she would be the first in the family.
  He spoke very sweetly of his grandchildren, they were all his oldest son's, the others no, no children. He created a pleasant atmosphere, and I began to feel at ease, with a sensation of positive attachment to things, the taste of the fish—it was mullet—the glass of wine, the light that radiated from the sea and beat on the glass. He talked about his grandchildren, and I began to talk about my children when they were young. Once, twenty years ago, in the snow, what fun we had had, Bianca and I—she was three, in a pink snowsuit, the hood trimmed with white fur, her cheeks bright red. Dragging our sled, we climbed to the top of a knoll, and then Bianca sat in front, between my legs. I held her tight, and down we went, at top speed, both shouting with joy, and when we got to the bottom the pink of the child's snowsuit had disappeared, and so had the red of her cheeks, hidden under a gleaming layer of ice; only her joyful eyes were visible, and her open mouth saying: again, Mama.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last paragraph
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I sat down cautiously on the sofa. Maybe the pin had pierced my side the way a sword pierces the body of a Sufi ascetic, doing no harm. I looked at the hat on the table, the crust of blood on the skin. It was dark. I rose and turned on the light. I started to pack my bags, but moving slowly, as if I were gravely injured. When the suitcases were ready, I dressed, put on my sandals, smoothed my hair. At that point the cell phone rang. I saw Marta's name, I felt a great contentment, I answered. She and Bianca, in unison, as if they had prepared the sentence and were performing it, exaggerating my Neapolitan cadence, shouted gaily into my ear:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She and Bianca, in unison, as if they had prepared the sentence and were performing it, exaggerating my Neapolitan cadence, shouted gaily into my ear:. I saw Marta's name, I felt a great contentment, I answered. At that point the cell phone rang. When the suitcases were ready, I dressed, put on my sandals, smoothed my hair. I started to pack my bags, but moving slowly, as if I were gravely injured. I rose and turned on the light. It was dark. I looked at the hat on the table, the crust of blood on the skin. Maybe the pin had pierced my side the way a sword pierces the body of a Sufi ascetic, doing no harm.I sat down cautiously on the sofa