conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a plot for a book about Hans, Garden, Paradise entitled The Daydreamer?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Daydreamer (film): A teenaged Hans Christian Andersen daydreams instead of studying for school.\nHe runs away from home.\nWhenever he falls asleep, he dreams that he is in strange adventures with tailors, a tiny girl no bigger than a thumb, a mermaid, a devil boy in Eden, and others.\nIn reality, as well as in his dreams, Hans is searching for the Garden of Paradise, which in reality, does not find.\nThe dream sequences are puppet animation, complete with a puppet version of himself.\nThese dreams become the basis for his fairy tale fictions, which he writes as an adult: The Little Mermaid, Thumbelina, The Ugly Duckling, The Emperor's New Clothes, Big Claus and Little Claus, and The Garden of Paradise.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Daydreamer
  When Peter Fortune was ten years old grown-up people sometimes used to tell him he was a 'difficult' child. He never understood what they meant. He didn't feel difficult at all. He didn't throw milk bottles at the garden wall, or tip tomato ketchup over his head and pretend it was blood, or slash at his granny's ankle with his sword, though he occasionally thought of these things. Apart from all vegetables except potatoes, and fish, eggs and cheese, there was nothing he would not eat. He wasn't noisier or dirtier or more stupid than anyone he knew. His name was easy to say and spell. His face, which was pale and freckled, was easy enough to remember. He went to school every day like all other children and never made that much fuss about it. He was only as horrid to his sister as she was to him. Policemen never came knocking at the front door wanting to arrest him. Doctors in white coats never offered to take him away to the madhouse. As far as Peter was concerned, he was really quite easy. What was difficult about him?
  It was not until he had been a grown-up himself for many years that Peter finally understood. They thought he was difficult because he was so silent. That seemed to bother people. The other problem was he liked being by himself. Not all the time, of course. Not even every day. But most days he liked to go off somewhere for an hour to his bedroom, or the park. He liked to be alone and think his thoughts.
  Now, grown-ups like to think they know what's going on inside a ten-year-old's head. And it's impossible to know what someone is thinking if they keep quiet about it. 'Peter, Peter! What are you thinking about?' they would call to him. And Peter would sit up with a start. 'Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.' Grown-ups knew that something was going on inside that head, but they couldn't hear it or see it or feel it. They couldn't tell Peter to stop it, because they did not know what it was he was doing in there. He could have been setting his school on fire or feeding his sister to an alligator and escaping in a hot air balloon, but all they saw was a boy staring at the blue sky without blinking, a boy who did not hear you when you called his name.
  As for being on his own, grown-ups didn't much like that either. They don't even like other grown-ups being on their own. When you join in, people can see what you're up to. You're up to what they're up to. You have to join in, or you'll spoil it for everyone else. Peter had different ideas. Joining in was all very fine, in its place. But far too much of it went on. In fact, he thought, if people spent less time joining in and making others join in, and spent a little time each day alone remembering who they were or who they might be, then the world would be a happier place and wars might never happen.
  At school he often left his body sitting at its desk while his mind went off on its journeys. Even at home daydreaming could sometimes get him into trouble. One Christmas Peter's father, Thomas Fortune, was hanging the decorations in the living-room. It was a job he hated. It always put him in a bad mood. He had decided to tape some streamers high in one corner. Now, in that corner was an armchair, and sitting in that armchair doing nothing in particular, was Peter.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about People, Peter, lying, chewing, staring.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Daydreamer
  When Peter Fortune was ten years old grown-up people sometimes used to tell him he was a 'difficult' child. He never understood what they meant. He didn't feel difficult at all. He didn't throw milk bottles at the garden wall, or tip tomato ketchup over his head and pretend it was blood, or slash at his granny's ankle with his sword, though he occasionally thought of these things. Apart from all vegetables except potatoes, and fish, eggs and cheese, there was nothing he would not eat. He wasn't noisier or dirtier or more stupid than anyone he knew. His name was easy to say and spell. His face, which was pale and freckled, was easy enough to remember. He went to school every day like all other children and never made that much fuss about it. He was only as horrid to his sister as she was to him. Policemen never came knocking at the front door wanting to arrest him. Doctors in white coats never offered to take him away to the madhouse. As far as Peter was concerned, he was really quite easy. What was difficult about him?
  It was not until he had been a grown-up himself for many years that Peter finally understood. They thought he was difficult because he was so silent. That seemed to bother people. The other problem was he liked being by himself. Not all the time, of course. Not even every day. But most days he liked to go off somewhere for an hour to his bedroom, or the park. He liked to be alone and think his thoughts. 
  Now, grown-ups like to think they know what's going on inside a ten-year-old's head. And it's impossible to know what someone is thinking if they keep quiet about it. People would see Peter lying on his back on a summer's afternoon, chewing a piece of grass and staring at the sky. 'Peter, Peter! What are you thinking about?' they would call to him. And Peter would sit up with a start. 'Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. ' Grown-ups knew that something was going on inside that head, but they couldn't hear it or see it or feel it. They couldn't tell Peter to stop it, because they did not know what it was he was doing in there. He could have been setting his school on fire or feeding his sister to an alligator and escaping in a hot air balloon, but all they saw was a boy staring at the blue sky without blinking, a boy who did not hear you when you called his name. 
  As for being on his own, grown-ups didn't much like that either. They don't even like other grown-ups being on their own. When you join in, people can see what you're up to. You're up to what they're up to. You have to join in, or you'll spoil it for everyone else. Peter had different ideas. Joining in was all very fine, in its place. But far too much of it went on. In fact, he thought, if people spent less time joining in and making others join in, and spent a little time each day alone remembering who they were or who they might be, then the world would be a happier place and wars might never happen. 
  At school he often left his body sitting at its desk while his mind went off on its journeys. Even at home daydreaming could sometimes get him into trouble. One Christmas Peter's father, Thomas Fortune, was hanging the decorations in the living-room. It was a job he hated. It always put him in a bad mood. He had decided to tape some streamers high in one corner. Now, in that corner was an armchair, and sitting in that armchair doing nothing in particular, was Peter.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He held his hand out and said simply, 'I want that apple,' and smiled again. Silvery sunlight flashed on his brace.
  Now Peter was not a coward. He had once limped down a mountain in Wales with a twisted ankle without a word of complaint. And he had once run into a rough sea fully clothed to drag a lady's dog out of the surf. But he had no heart for fighting. He shrank from it. He was strong enough for his age, but he knew he could never win a fight because he could never bring himself to hit anyone really hard. When a fight broke out in the playground, and all the kids gathered round, Peter felt sick in his stomach and weak in his legs.
  Peter felt the numbness stealing up his body from his feet. His apple was yellow streaked with red. Its skin was a little slack because he had brought it into school a week ago and it had been sitting in his desk, filling it with a sweet, woody scent. Was it worth a smashed face? Surely not. But then again, could he give it away just because a bully had demanded it?
  He looked at Barry Tamerlane. He had edged a little closer. His pink, round face was flushed. His glasses magnified his eyes. A little bubble of saliva clung between the rim of his brace and a front tooth. He was no bigger, and certainly not stronger, than Peter.
  Already a few children, sensing that a drama was building up around Tamerlane's corner of the playground, were beginning to gather in a ragged circle.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Young Leonard Marnham is assigned to a British-American surveillance team in mid-1950s Berlin. His work—tunneling under a Russian communications center to tap phone lines to Moscow—offers him an opportunity to begin shedding his unwanted innocence. Leonard's relationship with Maria Eckdorf, an enigmatic and beautiful West Berliner, also promises to loosen the bonds of his ordinary life. But promise turns to horror one night when Leonard learns just how much of his innocence he's willing to shed.
  Stephen Lewis is confronted with the unthinkable: his only child, three-year-old Kate, is snatched from him in a supermarket. Kate's absence sets Stephen and his wife on diverging paths as they each struggle with a grief that only seems to intensify with the passage of time. Eloquent and passionate, the novel concludes in a triumphant scene of love and hope.
  On vacation in a city that might be Venice, Mary and Colin are growing weary of each other, lost among the city's ancient winding streets. One night they meet an enigmatic stranger named Robert. Forceful and insistent, Robert leads them through the city—and away from their ordinary lives forever.
  Father died, then Mother. Now four children are alone in a house that looks like a castle stranded among grim high-rises. Free of supervision, they can do anything. As long as they keep the house's secret. In this tour de force of psychological unease, McEwan has constructed a novel that is all the more chilling for its offhand approach to the unspeakable.
  Taut, brooding, densely atmospheric, these stories show us the ways in which murder can arise out of boredom, perversity can result from adolescent curiosity, and sheer evil might be the solution to unbearable loneliness. These tales are as horrifying as anything written by Clive Barker or Stephen King.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: His work—tunneling under a Russian communications center to tap phone lines to Moscow—offers him an opportunity to begin shedding his unwanted innocence. Leonard's relationship with Maria Eckdorf, an enigmatic and beautiful West Berliner, also promises to loosen the bonds of his ordinary life. But promise turns to horror one night when Leonard learns just how much of his innocence he's willing to shed.
  Stephen Lewis is confronted with the unthinkable: his only child, three-year-old Kate, is snatched from him in a supermarket. Kate's absence sets Stephen and his wife on diverging paths as they each struggle with a grief that only seems to intensify with the passage of time. Eloquent and passionate, the novel concludes in a triumphant scene of love and hope.
  On vacation in a city that might be Venice, Mary and Colin are growing weary of each other, lost among the city's ancient winding streets. One night they meet an enigmatic stranger named Robert. Forceful and insistent, Robert leads them through the city—and away from their ordinary lives forever.
  Father died, then Mother. Now four children are alone in a house that looks like a castle stranded among grim high-rises. Free of supervision, they can do anything. As long as they keep the house's secret. In this tour de force of psychological unease, McEwan has constructed a novel that is all the more chilling for its offhand approach to the unspeakable.
  Taut, brooding, densely atmospheric, these stories show us the ways in which murder can arise out of boredom, perversity can result from adolescent curiosity, and sheer evil might be the solution to unbearable loneliness. These tales are as horrifying as anything written by Clive Barker or Stephen King.