It is no accident that the Greeks struggled with their muses.
The problem lies not with the muse herself but in her interaction with the men inspired by her.
A man of letters is an odd beast. Containing on average the same amount of testosterone and adrenaline as the average man, he lacks that average man’s simplicity and forthrightness. He is tempted not by the feel of the flesh, but by the idea of the mind behind the flesh. He falls in love with an illusory image and takes up his pen to write.
Gazing at the object of his desire with a sense of melancholy loss, he writes down the moments he should be feeling, closes his eyes and feels her pressed into his spirit as if he were in this moment pressing himself into her flesh.
The muse is a virgin goddess. Not because she has not let a man between her thighs, but because of the thousand she has inspired to visit her sanctum sanctorum in dreams. Her holy of holies. Her mind. She will remain inviolate to them, forever.
The man of letters can satisfy any carnal craving with a few flips of the wrist, or a delicate lamb chop on risotto with mint and parsley. But he cannot, can never in the age of the universe, satiate his desire to know. To delicately tease apart the individual thoughts of the other-mind.
He can never seduce the muse.
Such are the secret words of a man touch typing another few moments to his final end.