The sage goes on to remark that only erotic pleasure is real, drawing a parallel between erotica and divinity. We can safely skip that part, so as to protect the thirteen-year old who might prefer to read this column rather than hang out with his pimply friends at the Dairy Queen.
This idea of a person who exists only in the lover's imagination strikes pretty close to home. Been there, done that. When I was a piddling undergraduate, not that many years ago, I was totally in love. Head over heels, you understand. We would take long walks, talk through the night and part sorrowfully at dawn. The whole works. And whenever the woman of all my waking thoughts glanced at me during our nocturnal walks, her eyes would sparkle and a glow come over her face. I thought I was a lucky fellow.
Some years later, I realized the sparkle in her eyes was merely the reflection of the streetlamps in the contacts she wore.
