I keep trying to convey something which cannot be conveyed, to explain something which cannot be explained, something in my bones, which can only be experienced in the same bones. In essence it might be nothing more than that fear of the greatest things as well as the smallest, fear, convulsive fear of pronouncing a single word. On the other hand, maybe this fear isn’t simply fear, but also longing for something greater than anything that can aspire fear. Only I am at fault, because there is too little truth on my part, still far too little truth, still mostly lies, lies told out of fear of myself and fear of people. This pitcher was broken long before it went to the well. And now I am keeping my mouth shut in order to stick with the truth a little. Lying is horrible, there is no worse mental agony. Therefore I beg you: let me be silent.

—	Franz Kafka, Letters To Milena