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 paragraph 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?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know three more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: 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. 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: Add another sentence about Rosine's, Jacques, removed.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: 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 four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: 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