If falling in love was the only way to learn anything, and if falling in love was in some way about sex, could the fact that I hadn’t “had” sex explain why I seemed to myself not to have really learned anything—why I seemed not to have really learned anything about, for example, Hungary—why everything I did learn felt somehow incomplete and beside the point? Was it sex—“having” sex—that would restore to me the sense of my life as a story?
