spurin
commented
1 year ago I believe the issue may relate to large prompts being used, I've been able to recreate the problem.
I used the following as a prompt, taken from the Great Gatsby against GPT-4 -
Summarise this script into a tweet -
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave
me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever
since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just
remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually
communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he
meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up
many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not
a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and
attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person,
and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of
being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of
wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought —
frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate
revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I
am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as
my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a
sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally
at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the
admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the
hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t
care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last
autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a
sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous
4
excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only
Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt
from my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for
which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken
series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises
of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines
that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”— it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic
readiness such as I have never found in any other person and
which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby
turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby,
what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and shortwinded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this
Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are
something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my
line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one,
sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale
hardware business that my father carries on to-day.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like
him — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting
that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in
1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little
later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known
as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that
I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the
world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of
the universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and
uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for
me, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after
various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the
spring of twenty-two.
5
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a
warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and
friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested
that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded
like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the
firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country
alone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he
ran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made
my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to
herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man,
more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a
guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves
growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had
that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with
the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine
health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I
bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment
securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new
money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets
that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had
the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was
rather literary in college — one year I wrote a series of very
solemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News.”— and now I
was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram — life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house
in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was
on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of
New York — and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the
city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and
6
separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great
wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. they are not perfect ovals
— like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed
flat at the contact end — but their physical resemblance must
be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. to the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their
dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the — well, the less fashionable of the
two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre
and not a little sinister contrast between them. my house was
at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and
squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or
fifteen thousand a season. the one on my right was a colossal
affair by any standard — it was a factual imitation of some
Hotel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking
new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming
pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. it was
Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it
was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own
house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had
been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of
my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires
— all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East
Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer
really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner
with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I
spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had
been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at
New Haven — a national figure in a way, one of those men who
reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that
everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were
enormously wealthy — even in college his freedom with money
was a matter for reproach — but now he’d left Chicago and
come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for
instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake
7
Forest. it was hard to realize that a man in my own generation
was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in
France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and
there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich
together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it — I had no sight into Daisy’s
heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little
wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable
football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove
over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew
at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a
cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking
the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the
front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and
brick walks and burning gardens — finally when it reached the
house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the
momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French
windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to
the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding
clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a
sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and
a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of
always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate
swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of
that body — he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he
strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of
muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It
was a body capable of enormous leverage — a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked — and there
were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he
seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man
than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while
we were never intimate I always had the impression that he
8
approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh,
defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about
restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand
along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian
garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed
motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around
again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored
space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at
either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against
the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into
the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at
one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled
over the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does
on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an
enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up
as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white,
and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had
just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I
must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and
snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall.
Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the
curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned
slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless,
and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing
something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out
of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it — indeed, I was
almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise — she leaned
slightly forward with a conscientious expression — then she
laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too
and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if
she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment,
looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the
world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She
hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was
Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to
make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made
it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back
again — the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a
little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete selfsufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in
her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of
notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and
lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men
who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done
gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay,
exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my
way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through
me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear
wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. To-morrow!” Then she
added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen
her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s ——”Response
Father's advice: "Before criticizing, remember not everyone had your advantages." Embracing non-judgment led to unique connections & experiences. Reflecting on wealth, privilege, & the complexity of human relationships. #FathersWisdom #LifeLessons #PrivilegeAwarenessHere's the object, captured from Developer Tools -
{
"prompts": [
"Summarise this script into a tweet -\n\nIn my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave\nme some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever\nsince.\n“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just\nremember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”\nHe didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually\ncommunicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he\nmeant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up\nmany curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not\na few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and\nattach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person,\nand so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of\nbeing a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of\nwild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought —\nfrequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate\nrevelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I\nam still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as\nmy father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a\nsense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally\nat birth.\nAnd, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the\nadmission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the\nhard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t\ncare what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last\nautumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a\nsort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous\n4\nexcursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only\nGatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt\nfrom my reaction — Gatsby, who represented everything for\nwhich I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken\nseries of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises\nof life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines\nthat register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”— it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic\nreadiness such as I have never found in any other person and\nwhich it is not likely I shall ever find again. No — Gatsby\nturned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby,\nwhat foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and shortwinded elations of men.\nMy family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this\nMiddle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are\nsomething of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my\nline was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one,\nsent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale\nhardware business that my father carries on to-day.\nI never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like\nhim — with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting\nthat hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in\n1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little\nlater I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known\nas the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that\nI came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the\nworld, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of\nthe universe — so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and\nuncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for\nme, and finally said, “Why — ye — es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after\nvarious delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the\nspring of twenty-two.\n5\nThe practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a\nwarm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and\nfriendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested\nthat we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded\nlike a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the\nfirm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country\nalone. I had a dog — at least I had him for a few days until he\nran away — and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made\nmy bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to\nherself over the electric stove.\nIt was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man,\nmore recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.\n“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.\nI told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a\nguide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.\nAnd so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves\ngrowing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had\nthat familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with\nthe summer.\nThere was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine\nhealth to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I\nbought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment\nsecurities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new\nmoney from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets\nthat only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had\nthe high intention of reading many other books besides. I was\nrather literary in college — one year I wrote a series of very\nsolemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News.”— and now I\nwas going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram — life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.\nIt was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house\nin one of the strangest communities in North America. It was\non that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of\nNew York — and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the\ncity a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and\n6\nseparated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great\nwet barnyard of Long Island Sound. they are not perfect ovals\n— like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed\nflat at the contact end — but their physical resemblance must\nbe a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. to the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their\ndissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.\nI lived at West Egg, the — well, the less fashionable of the\ntwo, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre\nand not a little sinister contrast between them. my house was\nat the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and\nsqueezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or\nfifteen thousand a season. the one on my right was a colossal\naffair by any standard — it was a factual imitation of some\nHotel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking\nnew under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming\npool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. it was\nGatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it\nwas a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own\nhouse was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had\nbeen overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of\nmy neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires\n— all for eighty dollars a month.\nAcross the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East\nEgg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer\nreally begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner\nwith the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I\nspent two days with them in Chicago.\nHer husband, among various physical accomplishments, had\nbeen one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at\nNew Haven — a national figure in a way, one of those men who\nreach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that\neverything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were\nenormously wealthy — even in college his freedom with money\nwas a matter for reproach — but now he’d left Chicago and\ncome East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for\ninstance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake\n7\nForest. it was hard to realize that a man in my own generation\nwas wealthy enough to do that.\nWhy they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in\nFrance for no particular reason, and then drifted here and\nthere unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich\ntogether. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it — I had no sight into Daisy’s\nheart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little\nwistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable\nfootball game.\nAnd so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove\nover to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew\nat all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a\ncheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking\nthe bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the\nfront door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun-dials and\nbrick walks and burning gardens — finally when it reached the\nhouse drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the\nmomentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French\nwindows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to\nthe warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding\nclothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.\nHe had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a\nsturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and\na supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of\nalways leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate\nswank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of\nthat body — he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he\nstrained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of\nmuscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It\nwas a body capable of enormous leverage — a cruel body.\nHis speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked — and there\nwere men at New Haven who had hated his guts.\n“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he\nseemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man\nthan you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while\nwe were never intimate I always had the impression that he\n8\napproved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh,\ndefiant wistfulness of his own.\nWe talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.\n“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about\nrestlessly.\nTurning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand\nalong the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian\ngarden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed\nmotor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.\n“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around\nagain, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”\nWe walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored\nspace, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at\neither end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against\nthe fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into\nthe house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at\none end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled\nover the wine-colored rug, making a shadow on it as wind does\non the sea.\nThe only completely stationary object in the room was an\nenormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up\nas though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white,\nand their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had\njust been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I\nmust have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and\nsnap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall.\nThen there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the\ncurtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned\nslowly to the floor.\nThe younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless,\nand with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing\nsomething on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out\nof the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it — indeed, I was\nalmost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.\nThe other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise — she leaned\nslightly forward with a conscientious expression — then she\n\nlaughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too\nand came forward into the room.\n“I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.” She laughed again, as if\nshe said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment,\nlooking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the\nworld she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She\nhinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was\nBaker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to\nmake people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made\nit no less charming.)\nAt any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back\nagain — the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a\nlittle and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete selfsufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.\nI looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in\nher low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of\nnotes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and\nlovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men\nwho had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done\ngay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay,\nexciting things hovering in the next hour.\nI told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my\nway East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through\nme.\n“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.\n“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear\nwheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”\n“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. To-morrow!” Then she\nadded irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”\n“I’d like to.”\n“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen\nher?”\n“Never.”\n“Well, you ought to see her. She’s ——”"
],
"answers": [
"<p>Father's advice: \"Before criticizing, remember not everyone had your advantages.\" Embracing non-judgment led to unique connections & experiences. Reflecting on wealth, privilege, & the complexity of human relationships. #FathersWisdom #LifeLessons #PrivilegeAwareness</p>"
],
"url": "https://chat.openai.com/chat?model=gpt-4",
"title": "Father's Wisdom"
}
L-a-r-t
marekbrze
Hi Theo,
Unfortunately, I am seeing the Save Failed for a lot of my conversations. These are typically longer conversations with larger blocks of text. I noticed that this issue was previously opened and closed which relates to similar behaviour -
https://github.com/L-a-r-t/chatgpt-to-notion/issues/3
Please advise if I can help.