conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled Sunday After the War about American, Tropic, Cancer with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author (18911980) was one of the most controversial American novelists during his lifetime. His story, The Tropic of Cancer, was banned in the some U.S. states before being overruled by the Supreme Court. New Directions publishes several of his storys.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: New Directions publishes several of his storys.. states before being overruled by the Supreme Court.S. His story, The Tropic of Cancer, was banned in the some U.the author (18911980) was one of the most controversial American novelists during his lifetime
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for this story.. End with the sentence ' Had he divined that we would shortly be in need of his services?'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sunday After the War
  How I had dreaded this moment of returning to the bosom of the family! The thought of walking down this street again had always been a nightmare to me. If any one had told me when in Greece that two months hence I would be doing this I would have told him he was crazy. And yet, when I was informed at the American Consulate in Athens that I would be obliged to return to America I made no effort to resist. I accepted their unwarranted interference as if I were obeying the voice of Fate. Deep down, I suppose, was the realization that I had left something unfinished in America. Moreover, when the summons came I must confess that I was morally and spiritually stronger than I had ever been in my life. "If needs be," I said to myself, "I can go back to America," much as one would say, "I feel strong enough to face anything now!"
  It was towards evening when I set out to visit the folks. I came up out of the new Eighth Avenue subway and, though I knew the neighborhood well, immediately proceeded to lose my bearings. Not that the neighborhood had changed much; if anything it was I who had changed. I had changed so completely that I couldn't find my way any more in the old surroundings. I suppose too that getting lost was a last unconscious effort to avoid the ordeal.
  As I came down the block where the house stands it seemed to me as if nothing had changed. I was infuriated, in fact, to think that this street which I loathe so much had been so impervious to the march of time. I forget.... There was one important change. On the corner where the German grocery store had been, and where I had been horsewhipped as a boy, there now stood a funeral parlor. A rather significant transformation! But what was even more striking is the fact that the undertaker had originally been a neighbor of ours—in the old 14th Ward which we had left years ago. I recognized the name at once. It gave me a creepy feeling, passing his place. Had he divined that we would shortly be in need of his services?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: He grunted. Then he added: "You don't seem to care very much one way or another. You act like you were just riding around in the dark."
  I sank back and listened to him tell about guys walking around in the dark looking for a place to flop. He talked about them very much as a horticulturist would talk about certain species of shrubs. He was a "space-binder," as Korbsyzki puts it, a guy riding all the highways and byways all by his lonesome. What lay to either side of the traffic lanes was the veldt, and the creatures inhabiting that void were vagrants hungrily bumming a ride.
  The more he talked the more wistfully I thought of the meaning of shelter. After all, the cellar hadn't been too bad. Out in the world people were just as poorly off. The only difference between them and me was that they went out and got what they needed; they sweated for it, they tricked one another, they fought one another tooth and nail. I had none of those problems. My only problem was how to live with myself day in and day out.
  I was thinking how ridiculous and pathetic it would be to sneak back into the cellar and find a little corner all to myself where I could curl up and pull the roof down over my ears. I would crawl in like a dog with his tail between his legs. I wouldn't bother them any more with jealous scenes. I would be grateful for any crumbs that were handed me. If she wanted to bring her lovers in and make love to them in my presence it would be all right too. One doesn't bite the hand that feeds one. Now that I had seen the world I wouldn't ever complain again. Anything was better than to be left standing in the rain and not know where you want to go. After all, I still had a mind. I could lie in the dark and think, think as much as I chose, or as little. The people outside would be running to and fro, moving things about, buying, selling, putting money in the bank and taking it out again. That was horrible. I wouldn't ever want to do that. I would much prefer to pretend that I was an animal, say a dog, and have a bone thrown to me now and then. If I behaved decently I would be petted and stroked. I might find a good master who would take me out on a leash and let me make pipi everywhere. I might meet another dog, one of the opposite sex, and pull off a quick one now and then. Oh, I knew how to be quiet now and obedient. I had learned my little lesson. I would curl up in a corner near the hearth, just as quiet and gentle as you please. They would have to be terribly mean to kick me out. Besides, if I showed that I didn't need anything, didn't ask any favors, if I let them carry on just as if they were by themselves, what harm could come by giving me a little place in the corner?
  At this point in my reverie the most disquieting thought took hold of me. What if they had fled? What if the house were deserted?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Then he added: "You don't seem to care very much one way or another. You act like you were just riding around in the dark."
  I sank back and listened to him tell about guys walking around in the dark looking for a place to flop. He talked about them very much as a horticulturist would talk about certain species of shrubs. He was a "space-binder," as Korbsyzki puts it, a guy riding all the highways and byways all by his lonesome. What lay to either side of the traffic lanes was the veldt, and the creatures inhabiting that void were vagrants hungrily bumming a ride.
  The more he talked the more wistfully I thought of the meaning of shelter. After all, the cellar hadn't been too bad. Out in the world people were just as poorly off. The only difference between them and me was that they went out and got what they needed; they sweated for it, they tricked one another, they fought one another tooth and nail. I had none of those problems. My only problem was how to live with myself day in and day out.
  I was thinking how ridiculous and pathetic it would be to sneak back into the cellar and find a little corner all to myself where I could curl up and pull the roof down over my ears. I would crawl in like a dog with his tail between his legs. I wouldn't bother them any more with jealous scenes. I would be grateful for any crumbs that were handed me. If she wanted to bring her lovers in and make love to them in my presence it would be all right too. One doesn't bite the hand that feeds one. Now that I had seen the world I wouldn't ever complain again. Anything was better than to be left standing in the rain and not know where you want to go. After all, I still had a mind. I could lie in the dark and think, think as much as I chose, or as little. The people outside would be running to and fro, moving things about, buying, selling, putting money in the bank and taking it out again. That was horrible. I wouldn't ever want to do that. I would much prefer to pretend that I was an animal, say a dog, and have a bone thrown to me now and then. If I behaved decently I would be petted and stroked. I might find a good master who would take me out on a leash and let me make pipi everywhere. I might meet another dog, one of the opposite sex, and pull off a quick one now and then. Oh, I knew how to be quiet now and obedient. I had learned my little lesson. I would curl up in a corner near the hearth, just as quiet and gentle as you please. They would have to be terribly mean to kick me out. Besides, if I showed that I didn't need anything, didn't ask any favors, if I let them carry on just as if they were by themselves, what harm could come by giving me a little place in the corner?
  At this point in my reverie the most disquieting thought took hold of me. What if they had fled? What if the house were deserted?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A cross-section designed to show the whole range of Miller's writing—stories, literary essays, "portraits" of people and places—interlarded with new autobiographical comments by Henry Miller. Edited, with an introduction, by Lawrence Durrell. Hardbound.
  Miller continues his examination of the American scene, in essays and stories, and finds men capable of resisting the dehumanizing pressures of civilization. Hardbound and paper-bound. Paperbound.
  A rich collection of Miller's stories and philosophical pieces, including his studies of D. H. Lawrence and Balzac. Paper-bound.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Rimbaud, Miller.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A cross-section designed to show the whole range of Miller's writing—stories, literary essays, "portraits" of people and places—interlarded with new autobiographical comments by Henry Miller. Edited, with an introduction, by Lawrence Durrell. Hardbound. 
  Miller continues his examination of the American scene, in essays and stories, and finds men capable of resisting the dehumanizing pressures of civilization. Hardbound and paper-bound. 
  A study of Rimbaud that is as much a study of Miller and has throughout the electric quality of miraculous empathy. Paperbound. 
  A rich collection of Miller's stories and philosophical pieces, including his studies of D. H. Lawrence and Balzac. Paper-bound.