I liked her and admired her but could not love her. She crept into my life the way an afternoon will fill with light after a cold and somber morning. The quality of afternoon light just before evening, molten, ebullient, but sad, serenely characterized both her youthful appearance and her mind. Why couldn't I love her, when she was both beautiful and in the middle of womanhood? Manners compel me to say there were many reasons, but, in truth, it was because her judgments were too severe. Some view taste, for instance, when it comes to things like art and taste itself, as pertaining to valid differences; she would have none of this. Taste, to her, was a scale, and she believed in a correct way to feel about all things. She refused to discuss controversial topics unless by indirection, in a manner figuratively dressed up, so on subjects where others screamed, she made her thoughts known softly, in poetry. This unsettled many, who doubted, behind her back, her sanity. I listened to her for hours, but days would elapse as I considered the opinions of the many, who belonged to both my habits and my livelihood. I prided myself on the ability to find agreement with her---and them. They knew I knew in all matters how correct they were, (this is how society works). Correspondingly, she was to me an idle dream, more pleasant than anything else I knew, a drink, a cure, a game to entertain---and even nourish me, perhaps, but only for a few hours, inevitably in the stretching light of an afternoon. Picture a chessboard bathed in calm light, the long, delicate shadows of the statuesque pieces, and never any music, save the soft tones of her preternaturally soft voice. She spoke on love with too much rigor for my taste. Love is not a game of chess. I recoiled at her opinions, crafted, it seemed, from mountain ice. Chastity to her was not religious, but religion itself; at least this was how she talked. On this subject, like my friends, I found it difficult to believe her--- in light of her exquisite beauty. She never touched me, except once, by accident, and it was as if nothing had happened. Her hair was of great length and torrid in its loveliness, but when her arm brushed mine, I was aware of no substance at all, except for a tingle one might feel upon observing many stars at night or distant objects covered by mist over moving waters. I felt no weight, only electricity, as if the whole of her were trembling air. Once, she caught me smiling, as she attempted to impress upon me what in the world it was I'm not sure, but the seriousness of it must have been sacred, for she never spoke to me again. Due to this, I was in a terrible state for weeks, perhaps months, but condemning her philosophy in my heart over and over again, I recovered, and was able to write this, partially in her honor. One of her observations particularly sickened and offended me. She pronounced all physical love as crime. She managed to speak this stern opinion to me in poetry. She looked in my eye and said all seduction was criminal---and hidden as such because various steps of the exploits unfold in slow motion--- and therefore no child comes into the world who is innocent; innocence is brought into the world only by poetry. Here she closed her eyes and gasped. For two or three moments it appeared she couldn't breathe. "Poetry?" I asked. She took a deep breath as I said this word. Then she looked at me. And that was how our evening ended.