conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book about Rojack, Cherry, Nicky entitled An American Dream.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: An American Dream (film): Stephen Rojack, a war hero, returns home to become a tough-talking television commentator who strongly criticizes the police's inability to put an end to the criminal activities of an organized-crime figure, Ganucci.\nSeparated from his alcoholic wife, Deborah, he goes to her seeking a divorce.\nA violent argument breaks out, ending with Rojack throwing her from a 30-story window.\nAt the police station, where he tells the police his wife committed suicide, Rojack runs into Ganucci as well as the gangster's nephew, Nicky, and nightclub singer Cherry McMahon, a former girlfriend of his.\nRojack resumes his romantic interest in Cherry, further infuriating the Ganuccis.\nHis dead wife's father, Barney Kelly, is suspicious about Deborah's death and confronts Rojack, getting him to admit his guilt.\nInstead of informing the police, Barney decides to let Rojack struggle with his conscience.\nMeanwhile, bribing her with a singing contract, the Ganuccis are able to convince Cherry to lure Rojack into an ambush.\nAt the last second, she breaks down and warns him.\nRojack takes her gun and is able to shoot Nicky, but then is gunned down himself.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: An American Dream
  I could hear Deborah's tones in his voice: they pushed me to answer too quickly. "Yes, I could do it," I said, and had said too much.
  He held his brandy glass and looked down into it as if the quiver of light in the liquid were the entrails of a sacrifice.
  But as I turned my mouth to my own drink, the liquid leaped up with a lurch of my elbow off the arm of the chair, and a splash went on my cheek. It could have been blood, that small streak of Deborah's blood left as I embraced her in a full false embrace as she was lying on the street, and the sensation of something wet on my face divided me now from reason. I had a horror of being forced to walk the parapet—there was no confidence I could do it at all; yet the room fixed me in a mood I did not dare to break as if there would be a toll on my flesh, some new penalty of nausea, waste, and disease if I shattered the force which lay on us now by getting to my feet, by leaving him. Besides I did not know where his power ended. Maybe he had only to pick up the phone and some automobile could cut me down at an intersection. Everything contained its possibility. I only knew that I was in some difficult all but inextricable situation in which he would succeed to push me further, and then further again, like a chess master nursing his victory, until I would be forced to admit the inevitable necessity of going out on the terrace. And that I could not do.
  The silence had no air left. Now the messenger arrived. It all came in at once. "Yes, I killed her," I said, "but I didn't seduce her when she was fifteen, and never leave her alone, and never end the affair," and I leaned forward to attack him, as if finally he were mine and I was free of waste and guilt and gutting of the earth, and looking at him knew this was exactly what he had wanted me to discover, what he had spent this night in developing until even I could not miss it, and a smile came off him, a sweet smile, the loveliest smile he possessed, it twinkled about Kelly like a harbor light: come here, the mermaids were saying, you have taken our queen and we have captured your king, checkmate, dear boy, and I slipped off the lip of all sanity into a pit of electronic sirens and musical lyrics dictated by X-ray machines for a gout of the stench which comes from devotion to the goat came up from him and went over to me. I no longer knew what I was doing, nor why I did it, I was in some deep of waters and no recourse but to keep swimming and never stop. Disaster would be on my body when I came to rest. Something stirred in the room. Perhaps it was the vat of liquor in my gut, but I had the sensation something of me was passing through a corridor and a breath, an odium, came up over my face as if finally I had blundered through a barrier. Kelly was near to that violence Deborah used to give off, that hurricane rising from a swamp, that offer of carnage, of cannibals, the viscera of death came from him to me like suffocation. I was going to be dead in another minute; all Deborah's wrath passed now through him, he was agent to her fury and death set about me like a ringing of echoes in ether, red light and green. I waited for Kelly to attack—he came that close—I had only to close my eyes and he would go to the fire, pick up a poker—his stopped-up violence fired the room. We could have been sitting in smoke. Then this suffocation passed, was replaced; on the beat of the silence, feeling his pulse as if it were my own, hearing his heart like the electronic wind in a microphone, I floated out on the liquor to a promise of power, some icy majesty of intelligence, a fired heat of lust. His body gave off the radiation of a fire, there was heat between us now the way there had been heat between Ruta and me in Deborah's hall; suddenly I knew what it had been like with Cherry and him, not so far from Ruta and me, no, not so far, and knew what it had been like with Deborah and him, what a hot burning two-backed beast, and I could hear what he offered now: bring Ruta forth, three of us to pitch and tear and squat and lick, swill and grovel on that Lucchese bed, fuck until our eyes were out, bury the ghost of Deborah by gorging on her corpse, for this had been the bed, yes, this Lucchese had been the bed where he went out with Deborah to the tar pits of the moon. Now, he had a call to bury her raw. Desire came off Kelly to jump the murderer of his beast, and unfamiliar desire stirred in me, echo of that desire to eat with Ruta on Deborah's corpse. "Come on," Kelly murmured, sitting on his throne, "shall we get shitty?" and went on in a voice so low his tongue and teeth were almost in the speech, I was in that vacuum where silence is stored and the reek of murders still unconceived.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A gust blew up behind me, a slap of wind. As I swayed in it I took the turn and kept going two, three, four, five steps, I was almost halfway around. But the rain was icy cold—the temperature had dropped five degrees coming around that turn. I was somehow more exposed now. I took a step; and another step. I was no longer walking with one leg dragged behind the other, but now my body kept leaning toward the terrace—I had a panic of standing straight as though that might trick me into looking down the fall. It was exhausting. I had come a little more than halfway around and was as used up as a sailor who has been tied for hours in the rigging of a four-master beating through a storm. The rain came in sharp as pins. Then the wind started up suddenly with a long screech of pain, a crack in my ear, and buffeted me to right and to left, blew me back almost to the terrace and then caught me the other way, leaned me out, my foot slipped an inch at that instant, and I had a view again of the street. I just stood in place, knees quivering, and listened to the wind whose cry came in from every angle. Something in the air was lacerated to make that cry. Then I almost fell to one knee for a blow came at me from nowhere, a fist on my back, and yet Kelly was ten feet away. I had to keep moving, everything was getting worse the longer I stayed still, but my feet were bad again. I pushed one forward; then the worst gust of wind came—Deborah's lone green eye flew into my eye. Hands came to pull me off, her hands, I smelled a breath—was it real?—it was gone. I took two more steps and reached the second angle. I was on the way back to the wall. But the wind came up again. My vision began to go—which is to say the narrow walk of the parapet began to shift—it swayed to the left, it swayed to the right, the stone was swaying, no it was me, I was swaying, my vision faded, came back again, faded, came back. I had a desire to leave the balcony and fly, I was certain I would succeed. I would fly out on some nerve, and out, and then my mind went out to a place on the edge, as close to going as an exhausted driver on a highway is close to sleep, and I said to myself, "Get off now. You can hardly see."
  But something else said, "Look at the moon, look up at the moon." A silvery whale, it slipped up from the clouds and was clear, coming to surface in a midnight sea, and I felt its pale call, princess of the dead, I would never be free of her, and then the most quiet of the voices saying, "You murdered. So you are in her cage. Now, earn your release. Go around the parapet again," and this thought was so clear that I kept going down the third leg; and the wall came nearer to me; my limbs came alive again; each step I took, something good was coming in, I could do this, I knew I could do it now. There was the hint of when I would finally be done—some bliss from infancy moved through the lock of my lungs. As I approached the wall, ten feet away, eight feet away, six feet away, Kelly came near, and I stopped.
  I got into a bar before the closing, and had a double bourbon, the liquor going down like love. In a few minutes I would be close to Cherry again, and tomorrow we would buy a car. We would travel for a long time. Then, God and the gods willing, return for Deirdre. I could steal her from Kelly. There might be a way. And felt the beginning of a heart of happiness at being with Cherry—there was promise at the center of the thought. Hoisting the drink on this lilt, I looked into my mind—the memory of Deborah now like a scroll which must be read from back to front—and thought, "You've gotten off easy," and gagged on the drink, for dread came up like a wave. In my mind, I saw a fire in a tenement on the Lower East Side. And heard the wail of a fire engine. But it was a real fire engine; sixty seconds later it went by the bar in a red shriek and sword.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I got into Las Vegas at five, after twice ten hours of driving across a night of heat, July heat in the month of March, black and full of waves. The lights were on in town. The Fremont was one electric blaze, the Golden Nugget another, the sky was dark, the streets were light, lighter than Broadway on New Year's Eve, the heat was a phenomenon. Was it ninety degrees at nine minutes to five, five in the morning now? The car took a ride down the Strip in the dawn, carburetor smelling the burned-out air, madnesses forming, madnesses consumed. A small fist of the large fear which is saved for eternity formed like a stone in the pipe. Smell of death in the nose, I found a hotel, unpacked the dusty baggage. The bedroom was cold, seventy degrees, a cellar, a tomb, an air-conditioned chill. Sank into unconsciousness through vortices of road, blast furnaces of heat and currents of Las Vegas which carried me on a nerve-strung sleep to New York, where I was moving from friend to friend to find the money to buy a car. I had gone to a funeral after all, but it was Cherry's. And wanted to go to another, but it was Shago's, and let it pass. I did not want to face the Chinese Negroes who would be waiting at the door.
  It was March, near the beginning of April. The heat wave held. I went into two atmospheres. Five times a day, or eight, or sixteen, there was a move from hotel to car, a trip through the furnace with the sun at one hundred and ten, a sprint along the Strip (billboards the size of a canyon) a fast sprint in the car, the best passenger car racing in America, driving not only your own piece of the mass production, but shifting lanes with the six or seven other cars in your field of collision. It was communal living at its best, everybody ready for everybody else, and then an aces fast turn off the Strip to land in the parking lot of the next hotel, lungs breathing up the bellows of the desert, that hundred-and-ten air, hotter than hot flannel on the lining of the throat, and once again it was hopeless to know whether one could go to the end, or if in two hours, four hours, six, or six-and-twenty, the heat would swell some hinge of the brain, and madness would burn up out of that rent in the hinge. But for five or ten minutes the desert air was nothing to endure, a sport, one hundred and ten and going up, half-conducive the way the entrance to a sauna is half-conducive—that heat, that desert bake, hot as the radiation from a hard-wood fire. But then always into a hotel where the second atmosphere was on, the cold atmosphere, the seventy degrees of air-conditioned oxygen, that air which seemed to have come a voyage through space as if you were in the pleasure chamber of an encampment on the moon and fortified air was brought in daily by rockets from the earth. Yes the second atmosphere had a smell which was not the air conditioning of other places: the hollow sucked out by the machine left a hole which was deeper here. You caught the odor of an empty space where something was dying alone.
  Lived in this second atmosphere for twenty-three hours of the twenty-four—it was life in a submarine, life in the safety chambers of the moon. Nobody knew that the deserts of the West, the arid empty wild blind deserts, were producing again a new breed of man.
  Stayed at the dice tables. I was part of the new breed. Cherry had left a gift. Just as Oswald Kelly once went to sleep knowing which stocks would be on the rise by morning, so I knew the luck in the hand of each man who came to the table, I knew when to go down on the pass-line and when to bet the Don't Come. I was flat with the dice on my own, I dropped them quick as I could, but I kept an eye for the losers and worked up the fortune there. In four weeks I made twenty-four, paid my debts, all sixteen plus the loan for the car, and got ready to go on. There was a jungle somewhere in Guatemala which had a friend, an old friend, I thought to go there. And on to Yucatán. The night before I left Las Vegas I walked out in the desert to look at the moon. There was a jeweled city on the horizon, spires rising in the night, but the jewels were diadems of electric and the spires were the neon of signs ten stories high. I was not good enough to climb up and pull them down. So wandered farther out to the desert where the mad before me had come, and thought of walking into ambush. Eyes had been on me four full weeks, eyes collecting more and more—the news was out of who I was and verdicts were waiting. But I was safe in the city—no harm would come to me there—it was only in the desert that death would come up like a scorpion with its sting. If anyone wished to shoot me, he might have me here. But no one did, and I wandered on, and found a booth by the side of the empty road, a telephone booth with a rusty dial. Went in and rang up and asked to speak to Cherry. And in the moonlight, a voice came back, a lovely voice, and said, "Why, hello, hon, I thought you'd never call. It's kind of cool right now, and the girls are swell. Marilyn says to say hello. We get along, which is odd, you know, because girls don't swing. But toodle-oo, old baby-boy, and keep the dice for free, the moon is out and she's a mother to me." Hung up and walked on back to the city of jewels, and thought before I left the spires, might go out to call her one more time. But in the morning, I was something like sane again, and packed the car, and started on the long trip to Guatemala and Yucatán.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But in the morning, I was something like sane again, and packed the car, and started on the long trip to Guatemala and Yucatán. The lights were on in town. The Fremont was one electric blaze, the Golden Nugget another, the sky was dark, the streets were light, lighter than Broadway on New Year's Eve, the heat was a phenomenon. Was it ninety degrees at nine minutes to five, five in the morning now? The car took a ride down the Strip in the dawn, carburetor smelling the burned-out air, madnesses forming, madnesses consumed. A small fist of the large fear which is saved for eternity formed like a stone in the pipe. Smell of death in the nose, I found a hotel, unpacked the dusty baggage. The bedroom was cold, seventy degrees, a cellar, a tomb, an air-conditioned chill. Sank into unconsciousness through vortices of road, blast furnaces of heat and currents of Las Vegas which carried me on a nerve-strung sleep to New York, where I was moving from friend to friend to find the money to buy a car. I had gone to a funeral after all, but it was Cherry's. And wanted to go to another, but it was Shago's, and let it pass. I did not want to face the Chinese Negroes who would be waiting at the door.
  It was March, near the beginning of April. The heat wave held. I went into two atmospheres. Five times a day, or eight, or sixteen, there was a move from hotel to car, a trip through the furnace with the sun at one hundred and ten, a sprint along the Strip (billboards the size of a canyon) a fast sprint in the car, the best passenger car racing in America, driving not only your own piece of the mass production, but shifting lanes with the six or seven other cars in your field of collision. It was communal living at its best, everybody ready for everybody else, and then an aces fast turn off the Strip to land in the parking lot of the next hotel, lungs breathing up the bellows of the desert, that hundred-and-ten air, hotter than hot flannel on the lining of the throat, and once again it was hopeless to know whether one could go to the end, or if in two hours, four hours, six, or six-and-twenty, the heat would swell some hinge of the brain, and madness would burn up out of that rent in the hinge. But for five or ten minutes the desert air was nothing to endure, a sport, one hundred and ten and going up, half-conducive the way the entrance to a sauna is half-conducive—that heat, that desert bake, hot as the radiation from a hard-wood fire. But then always into a hotel where the second atmosphere was on, the cold atmosphere, the seventy degrees of air-conditioned oxygen, that air which seemed to have come a voyage through space as if you were in the pleasure chamber of an encampment on the moon and fortified air was brought in daily by rockets from the earth. Yes the second atmosphere had a smell which was not the air conditioning of other places: the hollow sucked out by the machine left a hole which was deeper here. You caught the odor of an empty space where something was dying alone.
  Lived in this second atmosphere for twenty-three hours of the twenty-four—it was life in a submarine, life in the safety chambers of the moon. Nobody knew that the deserts of the West, the arid empty wild blind deserts, were producing again a new breed of man.
  Stayed at the dice tables. I was part of the new breed. Cherry had left a gift. Just as Oswald Kelly once went to sleep knowing which stocks would be on the rise by morning, so I knew the luck in the hand of each man who came to the table, I knew when to go down on the pass-line and when to bet the Don't Come. I was flat with the dice on my own, I dropped them quick as I could, but I kept an eye for the losers and worked up the fortune there. In four weeks I made twenty-four, paid my debts, all sixteen plus the loan for the car, and got ready to go on. There was a jungle somewhere in Guatemala which had a friend, an old friend, I thought to go there. And on to Yucatán. The night before I left Las Vegas I walked out in the desert to look at the moon. There was a jeweled city on the horizon, spires rising in the night, but the jewels were diadems of electric and the spires were the neon of signs ten stories high. I was not good enough to climb up and pull them down. So wandered farther out to the desert where the mad before me had come, and thought of walking into ambush. Eyes had been on me four full weeks, eyes collecting more and more—the news was out of who I was and verdicts were waiting. But I was safe in the city—no harm would come to me there—it was only in the desert that death would come up like a scorpion with its sting. If anyone wished to shoot me, he might have me here. But no one did, and I wandered on, and found a booth by the side of the empty road, a telephone booth with a rusty dial. Went in and rang up and asked to speak to Cherry. And in the moonlight, a voice came back, a lovely voice, and said, "Why, hello, hon, I thought you'd never call. It's kind of cool right now, and the girls are swell. Marilyn says to say hello. We get along, which is odd, you know, because girls don't swing. But toodle-oo, old baby-boy, and keep the dice for free, the moon is out and she's a mother to me." Hung up and walked on back to the city of jewels, and thought before I left the spires, might go out to call her one more time.I got into Las Vegas at five, after twice ten hours of driving across a night of heat, July heat in the month of March, black and full of waves.