conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Hell at the Breech about PRAISE, Hell, Breech with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: FROM THE PRAISE FOR HELL AT THE BREECH:'Beautifully written and potent.' Daniel Woodrell, Washington Post 'A literary knockout. the author has cleverly woven history and fiction. Hell at the Breech is an impressive novel that should catapult the author into the big leagues.' USA Today'Such exquisite prose, such depth of character and depth of emotion that you feel swept up in a terrible beauty. Hell at the Breech bears comparison only with other great novels, and it ensures a place for the author in the highest ranks of our country's new writers.' Dennis Lehane'The most extraordinary first novel to come out of the South since Charles Frazier's Cold Mountain... hypnotically captivating.' Orlando Sentinel'the author evokes time and place with language of eloquence and fire, and his journey through the evils men do leads down the old dark ways of the heart.' William GayFROM THE PRAISE FOR POACHERS: 'I am amazed by the author's power. I'm reminded, by the evocative strength of the prose and the relentlessness of the imagination, of William Faulkner.' Philip Roth'It's as if the author kidnapped Raymond Carver's characters and set them loose in the Deep South.' New York Times Book Review'Marvellous... the author writes beautifully with an unsparing, detached eye.' The Times
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ' The Times. the author writes beautifully with an unsparing, detached eye...' New York Times Book Review'Marvellous.' Philip Roth'It's as if the author kidnapped Raymond Carver's characters and set them loose in the Deep South. I'm reminded, by the evocative strength of the prose and the relentlessness of the imagination, of William Faulkner.' William GayFROM THE PRAISE FOR POACHERS: 'I am amazed by the author's power.' Orlando Sentinel'the author evokes time and place with language of eloquence and fire, and his journey through the evils men do leads down the old dark ways of the heart. hypnotically captivating...' Dennis Lehane'The most extraordinary first novel to come out of the South since Charles Frazier's Cold Mountain. Hell at the Breech bears comparison only with other great novels, and it ensures a place for the author in the highest ranks of our country's new writers.' USA Today'Such exquisite prose, such depth of character and depth of emotion that you feel swept up in a terrible beauty. Hell at the Breech is an impressive novel that should catapult the author into the big leagues. the author has cleverly woven history and fiction.' Daniel Woodrell, Washington Post 'A literary knockout.FROM THE PRAISE FOR HELL AT THE BREECH:'Beautifully written and potent
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.. End with the sentence ' How unlike itself the world seemed at night, when trees lurked dark and hulking and the birds of the day disappeared who knew where.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hell at the Breech
  And the children of Mitcham Beat were warned that if they ever heard the whinny of horses and the squeak of good leather, they had better run and hide.
  DAWN CREPT UP OUT OF THE TREES, defining a bole, a burl, a leaf at a time the world he'd spent the night trying to comprehend. But what would daylight offer except the illusion of understanding? At least in darkness you were spared the pretending. Behind him in the cabin where he and William had lived since the death of their parents came the morning stirring of the Widow Gates, the clatter of logs as she arranged them in a tepee in the fireplace. He should have gone and done that for her.
  Was she talking to herself? No, to the dog who'd had her puppies the evening before. Ever the midwife, the widow had aided the dog as she'd delivered, with a wet rag cleaning the pups so the bitch would be free to push and whine, the old woman stolidly taking the halfhearted nip from the dog, who was confused by the pain. He turned his head to better hear, to learn what she might confide to the dog, but her voice was too soft.
  But he didn't. He continued to sit with his feet on the steps as the earth redefined itself around him, same as it had the day before and the day before that and as far back as his memory went, as if this dawn were no different from any other. The ground shifted and twitched with early sparrows; he studied them on their twig legs, invisible in the leaves until they moved. He remembered walking home from the meeting at the store earlier, his face to the sky, searching between branches for the white globe of the moon. How unlike itself the world seemed at night, when trees lurked dark and hulking and the birds of the day disappeared who knew where.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Two fellows approached Waite where he sat looking down from the saddle. He thought he knew them but couldn't place their names.
  The men looked at each other and then turned and went back through the mud to their wagons. They said something to another farmer who looked at Waite and shook his head. He knew he smelled like whiskey. He wished he could just sit on a porch with Bit not talking and waiting for noon when he could drink again.
  After a few minutes he judged everything in order and worked his way back through the maze of wagons to the hotel. He dismounted, held on to a post, and tried to scrape his boots clean one at a time. A buggy went past behind him, too fast, and flung water onto his shoulders. He turned in a rage to dress down the person but they'd gone by already, a man with a woman at his side, both looking happy. Waite's rage left him, taking with it his energy, and he sagged against the post. His head continued to throb but the fact of it was he wanted another drink. He looked at his pocket watch. Ten-thirty. He had a bottle in his locked drawer back at his office and headed that way.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: King, aware they were going toward Grove Hill, began to trot, the fields on both sides of them gray as the sky. As he rode, Waite hoped that Sue Alma would be home when he got there and would listen to all the things he had to say to her. That she'd have coffee on. He hoped Johnny-Earl would court, love, and marry the nurse who'd fixed his arm and that they would visit at Christmas. Before long he'd begun to nod in the saddle, his last waking thought a wish that the future would let him hold a baby boy named Billy Waite, who would grow to manhood and obey and endure the laws of man, who could survive the world the world was becoming.