conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Thoroughly, York, Times with the genre: Literature & Fiction, World Literature?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Exile and the Kingdom'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Exile and the Kingdom
  For the first time he discovered an unexpected and inexhaustible passion, soon devoted his days to painting, and—always effortlessly—excelled in that practice. Nothing else seemed to interest him, and it was unlikely that he would marry at a reasonable age, as painting entirely consumed him. For the beings and ordinary circumstances of life he had only a benevolent smile, which exempted him from concerning himself further. It took a motorcycle accident—Rateau was driving too fast, with his friend riding behind—for Jonas, his right hand immobilized in a cast, and feeling bored, to become interested in love. Here again he was inclined to see the good effects of his star in this serious accident. Without it, he would not have taken the time to notice Louise Poulin as she deserved.
  According to Rateau, moreover, Louise did not deserve to be noticed. Short and stocky himself, he liked only tall women. "I don't know what you see in that little ant," he said. Louise was in fact petite, with dark complexion, hair, and eyes, but she had a nice shape and a pretty face. Jonas, tall and solid, felt tenderly toward the ant, especially because she was industrious. Louise's vocation was activity. Such a vocation happily complemented Jonas's taste for inertia, and for its advantages. Louise devoted herself first to literature, at least as long as she believed that publishing interested Jonas. She read everything indiscriminately, and in a matter of weeks became capable of talking about it all. Jonas admired her and decided that he was definitively exempt from reading since Louise kept him sufficiently informed and up-to-date on the basics of contemporary discoveries. "You mustn't say," Louise announced, "that someone is bad or ugly but that he chooses to be bad or ugly." The distinction was important and might well lead, at the very least, as Rateau pointed out, to the condemnation of the human race. But Louise settled the matter by pointing out that since this truth was supported by both the tabloid press and philosophical reviews, it was therefore universal and beyond dispute. "As you like," said Jonas, who immediately forgot this cruel discovery to dream on his star.
  Louise deserted literature when she realized that Jonas was only interested in painting. She immediately devoted herself to the plastic arts, ran to museums and exhibitions, and dragged Jonas along, although he could hardly understand the painting of his contemporaries and in his artistic simplicity found it troubling. Yet he rejoiced at being so well informed on everything that concerned his art. It is true that the next day he would forget the name of the painter whose works he had just seen. But Louise was right when she peremptorily reminded him of one of the certainties she had preserved from her literary period, the knowledge that in reality, nothing is ever forgotten. His star certainly protected Jonas, who could in this way guiltlessly accumulate the certainties of memory and the conveniences of forgetting.
  But the treasures of devotion Louise lavished upon him sparkled brightest in Jonas's daily life. This good angel spared him the purchases of shoes, clothing, and underwear that for any normal man shorten the days of an already brief life. She resolutely took charge of the thousand inventions of the time-killing machine, from the obscure paperwork involved in social security to endlessly multiplying fiscal arrangements. "Yes, okay," Rateau would say, "but she can't go to the dentist for you." She did not do that, but she telephoned and made appointments at the best times; she took care of oil changes for the car, hotel rentals for vacations, domestic heating; she bought whatever gifts Jonas wanted to give, chose and sent his flowers, and still found time on certain evenings to come by his place in his absence and make up the bed that he would not need to turn down that night before going to sleep.
  With the same spirit, naturally, she got into this bed, then made the appointment at City Hall, led Jonas there two years before his talent was finally recognized, and organized the honeymoon so that they could visit all the museums. Not without first managing to find, in the midst of a housing crisis, a three-room apartment where they settled on their return. She then produced two children in quick succession, a boy and a girl, in accordance with her plan to have a total of three, which she completed shortly after Jonas had left the publishing house to devote himself to painting.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide two more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The man was looking at the gap where the river surged out of the great Brazilian forest and swept toward them. Several hundred centimeters wide at this place, the river's opaque and silky waters pressed against the side of the ferry, then, loosed at both ends, flowed over it and spread out again in a single powerful flood running gently through the dark forest toward the sea and the night. An unpleasant odor, coming from the water or the spongy sky, floated on the air. Now the lapping of the heavy waters under the ferry could be heard, and from both banks the intermittent calls of the buffalo toads or the strange cries of birds. The colossus walked over to the driver. The small, thin man, leaning against one of the bamboo posts, stuck his fists in the pockets of his overalls, once blue but now covered with the red dust they'd swallowed during their daylong drive. A smile spread over his face, which was lined despite his youth, and he was looking distractedly at the fading stars still swimming in the damp sky.
  But the birds' cries were clearer, mingled with strange chattering, and almost instantly the cable began to creak. The tall Negroes sunk their poles into the water and groped blindly for the bottom. The man turned toward the shore they had just left. Now it was covered by the darkness and the waters, vast and savage like the continent of trees that stretched beyond them for thousands of kilometers. Between the nearby ocean and this sea of vegetation, the handful of men drifting at this hour on a savage river seemed lost. When the raft struck the new wharf, it was as if, having cast off all moorings, they had reached an island in the dark after days of terrifying navigation.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: D'Arrast looked at him but could find no words. He turned toward the crowd in the distance, now shouting again. Suddenly, he snatched the cork mat from the hands holding it and walked toward the stone. He gestured to the others to lift it and took it almost effortlessly. Slightly compressed beneath the weight of the stone, his shoulders hunched, panting a little, he looked down at his feet, listening to the cook's sobs. Then he began moving on his own with a vigorous stride, steadily crossing the space that separated him from the crowd at the end of the street, and cut a path decisively through the first rows, which stood aside to let him pass. He entered the square between two rows of spectators, suddenly gone silent and looking at him in astonishment amidst the din of church bells and exploding firecrackers. He was advancing with the same resolute step, and the crowd opened a path for him up to the church. Despite the weight that was beginning to crush his head and neck, he saw the church and the reliquary, which seemed to be waiting for him on the portico. He was walking toward it and had already passed the center of the square when abruptly, without knowing why, he veered to the left and turned away from the path to the church, forcing the pilgrims to face him. Behind him, he could hear someone running. In front of him, everyone was openmouthed. He did not understand what they were shouting, although he seemed to recognize the Portuguese word they kept hurling at him. Suddenly, Socrates appeared in front of him, rolling his frightened eyes, speaking incoherently and pointing out the path to the church behind him. "To the church, to the church"—that was what Socrates and the crowd were shouting to him. D'Arrast, however, continued on his way. And Socrates stepped aside, his arms comically raised to the sky, while the crowd gradually quieted down. When d'Arrast entered the first street, familiar to him from his stroll to the riverside quarters with the cook, the square was no more than a vague murmur behind him.
  The stone now weighed painfully on his head and he needed all the strength of his huge arms to lighten it. By the time he reached the first streets with their slippery incline, his shoulders were already knotted. He stopped to listen. He was alone. When he got there, he was nearly out of breath, and his arms were trembling around the stone. He walked faster, finally reached the little square where the cook's hut stood, ran to it, kicked open the door, and in one movement heaved the stone into the center of the room, onto the still-glowing fire. And there, straightening up to his full height, suddenly enormous, inhaling with desperate gulps the familiar smell of poverty and ashes, he listened to the wave of joy surging inside him, dark and panting, which he could not name.
  When the hut's inhabitants arrived, they found d'Arrast standing against the back wall, his eyes closed. In the center of the room, in the hearth space, the stone was half-buried in cinders and earth. They stood on the threshold without coming in and stared at d'Arrast in silence, as if questioning him. But he was quiet. Then the brother led the cook to the stone, where he let himself drop to the ground. The brother sat down too, gesturing to the others. The old woman joined him, then the young girl of the night before, but no one was looking at d'Arrast. They were squatting silently around the stone. Only the murmur of the river rose to them through the heavy air. Standing in the dark, d'Arrast was listening without seeing anything, and the sound of the waters filled him with a tumultuous happiness. His eyes closed, he joyously honored his own strength, honored once more the life that was beginning again. At the same moment, a firecracker exploded nearby. The brother moved away a little from the cook and, half turning toward d'Arrast, without looking at him, motioned him to an empty place: "Sit down with us."
  Mordant, brilliant, elegantly styled, The Fall is a novel of the conscience of modern man in the face of evil. In a seedy bar in Amsterdam, Clamence, an expatriate Frenchman, indulges in a calculated confession. He recalls his past life as a respected Parisian lawyer, a champion of noble causes, and, privately, a libertine—yet one apparently immune to judgment. As his narrative unfolds, ambiguities amass; every triumph reveals a failure, every motive a hidden treachery. The irony of his recital anticipates his downfall—and implicates us all.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about straightened.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: D'Arrast looked at him but could find no words. He turned toward the crowd in the distance, now shouting again. Suddenly, he snatched the cork mat from the hands holding it and walked toward the stone. He gestured to the others to lift it and took it almost effortlessly. Slightly compressed beneath the weight of the stone, his shoulders hunched, panting a little, he looked down at his feet, listening to the cook's sobs. Then he began moving on his own with a vigorous stride, steadily crossing the space that separated him from the crowd at the end of the street, and cut a path decisively through the first rows, which stood aside to let him pass. He entered the square between two rows of spectators, suddenly gone silent and looking at him in astonishment amidst the din of church bells and exploding firecrackers. He was advancing with the same resolute step, and the crowd opened a path for him up to the church. Despite the weight that was beginning to crush his head and neck, he saw the church and the reliquary, which seemed to be waiting for him on the portico. He was walking toward it and had already passed the center of the square when abruptly, without knowing why, he veered to the left and turned away from the path to the church, forcing the pilgrims to face him. Behind him, he could hear someone running. In front of him, everyone was openmouthed. He did not understand what they were shouting, although he seemed to recognize the Portuguese word they kept hurling at him. Suddenly, Socrates appeared in front of him, rolling his frightened eyes, speaking incoherently and pointing out the path to the church behind him. "To the church, to the church"—that was what Socrates and the crowd were shouting to him. D'Arrast, however, continued on his way. And Socrates stepped aside, his arms comically raised to the sky, while the crowd gradually quieted down. When d'Arrast entered the first street, familiar to him from his stroll to the riverside quarters with the cook, the square was no more than a vague murmur behind him. 
  The stone now weighed painfully on his head and he needed all the strength of his huge arms to lighten it. By the time he reached the first streets with their slippery incline, his shoulders were already knotted. He stopped to listen. He was alone. He straightened the stone on its cork support and went down cautiously but steadily toward the huts. When he got there, he was nearly out of breath, and his arms were trembling around the stone. He walked faster, finally reached the little square where the cook's hut stood, ran to it, kicked open the door, and in one movement heaved the stone into the center of the room, onto the still-glowing fire. And there, straightening up to his full height, suddenly enormous, inhaling with desperate gulps the familiar smell of poverty and ashes, he listened to the wave of joy surging inside him, dark and panting, which he could not name. 
  When the hut's inhabitants arrived, they found d'Arrast standing against the back wall, his eyes closed. In the center of the room, in the hearth space, the stone was half-buried in cinders and earth. They stood on the threshold without coming in and stared at d'Arrast in silence, as if questioning him. But he was quiet. Then the brother led the cook to the stone, where he let himself drop to the ground. The brother sat down too, gesturing to the others. The old woman joined him, then the young girl of the night before, but no one was looking at d'Arrast. They were squatting silently around the stone. Only the murmur of the river rose to them through the heavy air. Standing in the dark, d'Arrast was listening without seeing anything, and the sound of the waters filled him with a tumultuous happiness. His eyes closed, he joyously honored his own strength, honored once more the life that was beginning again. At the same moment, a firecracker exploded nearby. The brother moved away a little from the cook and, half turning toward d'Arrast, without looking at him, motioned him to an empty place: "Sit down with us. "
  Mordant, brilliant, elegantly styled, The Fall is a novel of the conscience of modern man in the face of evil. In a seedy bar in Amsterdam, Clamence, an expatriate Frenchman, indulges in a calculated confession. He recalls his past life as a respected Parisian lawyer, a champion of noble causes, and, privately, a libertine—yet one apparently immune to judgment. As his narrative unfolds, ambiguities amass; every triumph reveals a failure, every motive a hidden treachery. The irony of his recital anticipates his downfall—and implicates us all.