But love⁠—as the male novelists define it⁠—and who, after all, speak with greater authority?⁠—has nothing whatever to do with kindness, fidelity, generosity, or poetry. Love is slipping off one’s petticoat and⁠—But we all know what love is. Did Orlando do that? Truth compels us to say no, she did not. If then, the subject of one’s biography will neither love nor kill, but will only think and imagine, we may conclude that he or she is no better than a corpse and so leave her.