The First Novel

Be my heroine, whispers the Novel to the Novelist.
Love me and die for me! orders the Novel to the Novelist.
Poetry, please lend me your blade, cries the Novelist.
It is as voluptuous to behead the one you love as to offer him your own head for a trophy, smiles Poetry.
The Novelist then writes:
One winter, I was traveling in a night train. All the windows of the dining car glimmered with the crystalled frost. A stranger sat down opposite me. Troubled, I dined with him, in silence…