conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Ernst, French, Bailly with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Dorothea Tanning'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first two paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dorothea Tanning
  Next there was the Hawaiian adventure. Summer 1952. By now I was there too. There was an exhibition (both of us, so help me) that contained a number of smoldering little paintings of volcanos (his) made over the past year. In the middle of the reception the news poured in: Kilauea, the volcano on the big island of Hawaii, had just entered into eruption after long years of playing possum. Who cared about painted volcanos?
  One day in Paris we prepared to leave next morning for Stuttgart for a Max Ernst retrospective. This ill-fated date was January 24, 1970. About one in the morning, smelling smoke, Max found our kitchen in flames.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I had smiled on their affair, even lent them a tiny attic room that belonged to the apartment. Why not, poor Rosine, so young and all that childbearing, a mule for a husband? Nothing but work since she was fourteen. Married at fifteen, with a big balloon already growing inside her, she was, as all of them in her milieu, eager to be a madame, never to have her ears boxed again. Oui, madame. To be mistress of a home as well as of the man in its bed. Such was their formula for escape, consolidated by the arrival of the infant. A second and a third followed in quick succession, along with certain cruel deceptions, mostly about the lack of money and the brutality of husbands. Hungry little mouths sent her back to work, to ride the subway at seven in the morning. Her handsomely painted eyes told her that the city was full of men.
  Oh dear. Good, foolish, faithless Rosine. Half a dozen guesses tumbled through me. Rosine is pregnant. Rosine is unmasked. Jacques is unmasked by his wife. Rosine is violent. Rosine is leaving him.... How to refuse? The phone was breathing from a padded booth where Jacques, Rosine's Jacques, appealed for help.
  So odd, in a way, and on a Saturday. Intrigued, then, I say three-thirty. I will listen, I will do what I can. No kindly employer would do less. And yet, sitting by the phone in a blurred, uneasy quiet, I gloomed over these alien pieces of life that, though so near, were terribly far from me.
  On the stroke of three-thirty, there he was, Rosine's Jacques, leather bomber jacket, motorcycle helmet, pigskin gloves, which he removed. With obsequious mien, he inclined slightly before the weight of my kindliness. And I, to myself, dear God, am I being conspiratorial?
  At this he shifts in his chair; the straw beard, the blue stare crowding me oddly, and something else, a tic: the left eyebrow jumping up and down with his words. He is saying that something is "very difficult." Then:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Why not, poor Rosine, so young and all that childbearing, a mule for a husband? Nothing but work since she was fourteen. Married at fifteen, with a big balloon already growing inside her, she was, as all of them in her milieu, eager to be a madame, never to have her ears boxed again. Oui, madame. To be mistress of a home as well as of the man in its bed. Such was their formula for escape, consolidated by the arrival of the infant. A second and a third followed in quick succession, along with certain cruel deceptions, mostly about the lack of money and the brutality of husbands. Hungry little mouths sent her back to work, to ride the subway at seven in the morning. Her handsomely painted eyes told her that the city was full of men.
  Oh dear. Good, foolish, faithless Rosine. Half a dozen guesses tumbled through me. Rosine is pregnant. Rosine is unmasked. Jacques is unmasked by his wife. Rosine is violent. Rosine is leaving him.... How to refuse? The phone was breathing from a padded booth where Jacques, Rosine's Jacques, appealed for help.
  So odd, in a way, and on a Saturday. Intrigued, then, I say three-thirty. I will listen, I will do what I can. No kindly employer would do less. And yet, sitting by the phone in a blurred, uneasy quiet, I gloomed over these alien pieces of life that, though so near, were terribly far from me.
  On the stroke of three-thirty, there he was, Rosine's Jacques, leather bomber jacket, motorcycle helmet, pigskin gloves, which he removed. With obsequious mien, he inclined slightly before the weight of my kindliness. And I, to myself, dear God, am I being conspiratorial?
  At this he shifts in his chair; the straw beard, the blue stare crowding me oddly, and something else, a tic: the left eyebrow jumping up and down with his words. He is saying that something is "very difficult." Then:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Of these Richard Howard has my warmest thanks for his constant support. His reading of my various efforts, his always incontrovertible suggestions, and his recommendations on my behalf have been, and are, invaluable.
  My sincere thanks to Drake Bennett, the editor of these pages, who with his unerring sang froid has managed to tame some of their wilder extravagances, thus tacitly reminding me that poetic license is for poets and not for memoirists.
  And to Mimi Johnson, my niece, go my fondest thanks for her ever-ready help in getting much of my scribbling in readable typed form, for helping to remember shared events, and for her patience in guiding me through the thickets of computerland.
  Ernst, Max, 15–16, 17, 21, 22, 30, 41, 48, 61–72, 74, 76–78, 79, 81, 87, 89, 90–92, 95–101, 103–35, 139–57, 181, 184, 187, 198–208, 212, 214–15, 223–25, 229, 231, 232–41, 254–56, 257, 266–76, 277, 279–80, 283–84, 287–93, 299, 317, 322–23, 338, 346
  Paris, 22, 31, 44, 49, 50–52, 54, 72, 73, 81, 84, 110–12, 116–19, 120, 129, 162–63, 165–67, 168–71, 172–77, 178–80, 181–94, 199, 206–7, 208, 214–19, 243, 244–46, 257, 272, 282, 303–4, 313, 341, 349, 362
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: His reading of my various efforts, his always incontrovertible suggestions, and his recommendations on my behalf have been, and are, invaluable.
  My sincere thanks to Drake Bennett, the editor of these pages, who with his unerring sang froid has managed to tame some of their wilder extravagances, thus tacitly reminding me that poetic license is for poets and not for memoirists.
  And to Mimi Johnson, my niece, go my fondest thanks for her ever-ready help in getting much of my scribbling in readable typed form, for helping to remember shared events, and for her patience in guiding me through the thickets of computerland.
  Ernst, Max, 15–16, 17, 21, 22, 30, 41, 48, 61–72, 74, 76–78, 79, 81, 87, 89, 90–92, 95–101, 103–35, 139–57, 181, 184, 187, 198–208, 212, 214–15, 223–25, 229, 231, 232–41, 254–56, 257, 266–76, 277, 279–80, 283–84, 287–93, 299, 317, 322–23, 338, 346
  Paris, 22, 31, 44, 49, 50–52, 54, 72, 73, 81, 84, 110–12, 116–19, 120, 129, 162–63, 165–67, 168–71, 172–77, 178–80, 181–94, 199, 206–7, 208, 214–19, 243, 244–46, 257, 272, 282, 303–4, 313, 341, 349, 362