“This is it: I have no language for reality. … how could one prove who one is in reality? I can’t. Do I even know myself who I am? This is the frightening experience of this period of remand: I have no language for my reality.” A passage from Max Frisch’s novel “I am not Stiller” (in my own translation). I have replaced the preceding pages with a concrete block.
Language is like cement, a story can be like concrete. Maybe that is so, because such a shape of story touches us deeply. It transmits an experience across the limits of the pronounceable.