conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled How the Dead Live about Royal, Ear, Natasha with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Poetry.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In April 1988, 65-year-old Lily Bloom quickly succumbs to cancer in the Royal Ear Hospital. ("Where do they keep the Royal Ear, I wonder? I think of it as very large--as big as a dinner tray--and very red, angrily red.") But after life there's death. Guided by an aborigine named Phar Lap Jones, she is transported by a Greek Cypriot minicab driver to the North London dead neighborhood of Dulston. There, accompanied by her dead son, Rude Boy, she's introduced to the 12-step Personally Dead meetings, and she watches over her living daughters--the cold, ambitious Charlotte, and her favorite, the heroin-addicted Natasha. "Natasha is peculiarly charged by the drug--and even by the mere anticipation of its effects. She shifts from being vulnerable and skittish and withdrawn to being strong and steady and extrovert. She's told me before that it makes her feel 'complete' and 'confident,' and I can see what she means. When she's off heroin she's a fucking nightmare--when she's on it she's a peach."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ". ("Where do they keep the Royal Ear, I wonder? I think of it as very large--as big as a dinner tray--and very red, angrily red.") But after life there's death. Guided by an aborigine named Phar Lap Jones, she is transported by a Greek Cypriot minicab driver to the North London dead neighborhood of Dulston. There, accompanied by her dead son, Rude Boy, she's introduced to the 12-step Personally Dead meetings, and she watches over her living daughters--the cold, ambitious Charlotte, and her favorite, the heroin-addicted Natasha. "Natasha is peculiarly charged by the drug--and even by the mere anticipation of its effects. She shifts from being vulnerable and skittish and withdrawn to being strong and steady and extrovert. She's told me before that it makes her feel 'complete' and 'confident,' and I can see what she means. When she's off heroin she's a fucking nightmare--when she's on it she's a peach.In April 1988, 65-year-old Lily Bloom quickly succumbs to cancer in the Royal Ear Hospital.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first paragraph for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: How the Dead Live
  As the insane Dr Mardy draws us into his mouldering fantasy and his mildewed madness, we experience a true horripilation, a rising of the hackles that indicates we are in the presence of the human mind pushed beyond the brink. Cook makes us see, that while we may cavort in the sunny uplands of life, the shades are always among us, flitting back and forth, seemingly without purpose, and yet slowly, insidiously, relentlessly, herding us towards the grave.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Old dreadnought was back at her window with a twelve-bore; I watched the barrels switch about in the half-dark, narrowing and shortening on us, the blue steel glinting from the bulb behind her as she tried to find the range. I took hold of Sanders and started dragging him out of the light, saying: 'She's going to fire, but let's hope she's too pissed. Let's get into that barn, now come on, sweetheart, move, I want you living so you can speak to a court.'
  The old fool upstairs fused the bulb in the room with a blow from her furious head and there was no more light in the yard, but I could feel the twelve-bore aiming for me and I yelled, pushing Dick behind me: 'You fire on a police officer, you old bag, and that's the rest of your life gone rotten.'
  I got Sanders into the barn doorway and was about to back in too when the first barrel went off. I like playing snooker and it wasn't the right angle for the shot, but it was fucking near. It was full choke and took a lot of brick off the wall about five inches from my swede. The cold air filled with the smell of powder, and old straw suddenly flew about the place. When I got inside I said to Sanders: 'That was nasty. Buckshot, that was.'
  He looked at me and said: 'You know Baddeley. I'll tell you about Baddeley. You know he runs Thornhill?'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I remember how I went to look outdoors a little while after he had said that; the sky was troubled and overcast, and yet sweet.
  Perhaps the only true crime is to know too much without really knowing what understanding means, so that as you live for the other, you also die for him.
  An unflinching yet deeply compassionate portrait of Margaret Thatcher's London – plagued by poverty and perversion—and an unnamed police Sergeant from the Unexplained Deaths department who may be the only one who cares about the "people who don't matter and who never did."
  The unnamed Sergeant stands up to both mobsters and his superiors while engaged in a harrowing game of cat-and-mouse with a psychopath who seems to have ties to the highest levels of the British government.
  With growing desperation and enraged compassion, the nameless Sergeant fights to uncover a murderer—not by following analytical procedure, but by understanding why crimes are committed.