conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about English, Flaubert's, Parrot with the genre: Literature & Fiction, History & Criticism?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Before She Met Me'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Before She Met Me
  Not a single one of his wife's films was showing. Not one. Graham felt as if a branch of the social services which particularly affected him had suddenly been withdrawn. Did they realize the effects of their cuts? He couldn't, today, go to any cinema in London or its immediate suburbs and see a film in which his wife committed adultery; nor could he see any film in which his wife, though remaining chaste onscreen, had committed adultery offscreen with one of the actors. The two categories, he noticed, were beginning to get blurred in his head.
  At home, he carefully stabbed the steaks and poked pieces of garlic into the incisions. He laid the table, adding candlesticks at the last moment. He got out the rarely-used ice bucket and broke some ice into it for Ann's gin and tonic. He was whistling as she opened the front door. When she walked into the dining-room he kissed her unambiguously on the lips and handed her a drink, followed by a bowl of shelled pistachio nuts. He hadn't been like this for weeks.
  Ann pulled away her arm. She had never imagined that Graham would provoke in her the disgusted pity she now felt.
  They didn't speak again all evening. They sat in separate rooms and then went to bed without consulting one another. As Ann was coming out of the bathroom—she had locked the door for once—Graham was waiting to go in. He stood further aside than was needed to let her pass.
  In bed, they lay with their backs to one another, a yard of space between them. In the dark, Graham began to cry quietly. After a few minutes Ann began to cry too. Finally she said,
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And so, most nights, Ann would sit quietly through Graham's outbursts, and at the end of the evening would stroke the side of his head and dry his tears with a handkerchief. Then she would lead him up to bed, and they would lie there, exhausted by sadness. On their backs, side by side, they looked like figures on a tomb.
  Ann screened the guests with some care. No old boyfriends, naturally. Jack would have to come, but that was all right—history had been rewritten. No one who knew too much about her past; and no one, she decided, who might want to flirt with her after a few drinks. It was beginning to sound like a soya meal.
  After lunch, as she carried on clearing up the house—which meant, she realized, emptying it of its keenest references to the people who lived there, making it as much a public place as possible—Ann found herself pondering more precisely what it was for. Perhaps, she concluded, it was a sort of announcement to their friends that nothing was wrong. The fact that none of their friends, apart from Jack, knew or suspected that anything was wrong in the first place was neither here nor there.
  Jack's way of opening wine was manly and combative. He wouldn't use openers which relied on air-injection systems; he called them chicks' bicycle-pumps. He wouldn't use wooden contraptions which fitted over the neck of the bottle and offered a choice of handles to turn. He would not even use a simple waiter's corkscrew: the idea of a lever and a two-pull technique struck him as cissy. All he would contemplate was a simple, old-fashioned, wooden-handled corkscrew.
  The performance was a three-part ritual. One: corkscrew inserted at waist height on a table or sideboard. Two: bottle picked up, held only by the corkscrew, and lowered in a smooth swoop to a position between the feet. Three: feet clamped round the base of the bottle, left hand holding the neck, then the cork pulled in a long, single stroke as if starting a motor mower; as the right arm came up with its prize, so, in parallel but belated motion, the left arm came up with the bottle, which was smoothly returned to its original surface. The performance, Jack believed, was one in which natural strength was subdued into elegant line.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The performance, Jack believed, was one in which natural strength was subdued into elegant line. Then she would lead him up to bed, and they would lie there, exhausted by sadness. On their backs, side by side, they looked like figures on a tomb.
  Ann screened the guests with some care. No old boyfriends, naturally. Jack would have to come, but that was all right—history had been rewritten. No one who knew too much about her past; and no one, she decided, who might want to flirt with her after a few drinks. It was beginning to sound like a soya meal.
  After lunch, as she carried on clearing up the house—which meant, she realized, emptying it of its keenest references to the people who lived there, making it as much a public place as possible—Ann found herself pondering more precisely what it was for. Perhaps, she concluded, it was a sort of announcement to their friends that nothing was wrong. The fact that none of their friends, apart from Jack, knew or suspected that anything was wrong in the first place was neither here nor there.
  Jack's way of opening wine was manly and combative. He wouldn't use openers which relied on air-injection systems; he called them chicks' bicycle-pumps. He wouldn't use wooden contraptions which fitted over the neck of the bottle and offered a choice of handles to turn. He would not even use a simple waiter's corkscrew: the idea of a lever and a two-pull technique struck him as cissy. All he would contemplate was a simple, old-fashioned, wooden-handled corkscrew.
  The performance was a three-part ritual. One: corkscrew inserted at waist height on a table or sideboard. Two: bottle picked up, held only by the corkscrew, and lowered in a smooth swoop to a position between the feet. Three: feet clamped round the base of the bottle, left hand holding the neck, then the cork pulled in a long, single stroke as if starting a motor mower; as the right arm came up with its prize, so, in parallel but belated motion, the left arm came up with the bottle, which was smoothly returned to its original surface.And so, most nights, Ann would sit quietly through Graham's outbursts, and at the end of the evening would stroke the side of his head and dry his tears with a handkerchief.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last two paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: His calculation had been that she would have to run to the phone, kick it over, dial 999 with her hands behind her back, and then wait for someone to arrive. Quite enough time. In fact, Ann immediately ran down the room, trailing the washing line behind her, past the dying Graham, past the dead Jack, round the desk, then put her head down and butted the window as hard as she could. That hurt a lot, but it made a large hole in the window. Then she screamed, as loudly as she could. Not words, but a long, unrelenting, patterned scream. Nobody came, though several people heard. Three of them phoned the police, and one the fire brigade.
  Not that it would have made any difference if one of them had got it right. Graham's calculations weren't upset by this variation of event. By the time the first policeman reached inside the broken window to undo the catch, the armchair was irrevocably soaked.