In the past, what lovers went to bed with was a kind of memory. A racial memory which included intimations of vast poetic meetings in the mists of time and all kinds and sorts of mythical and poetical and beautiful things – maybe all that was in the back of the mind. All the poetry, Dante and the rest. But when we replaced the memory of a desire, or the desire of a memory with a chart, love became baseball – all scoring and length of orgasm.