So art becomes not communication but mystification.

He could go back and take her in his arms. If only he knew how to do this. But they had lost the language of their affections, they had lost the style.

I had the illusion of conversing with a fellow being without a barrier, without a steel door, without a black hood over my head . . . I have never, I think, impressed upon you how almost impossible I find it to communicate with anybody.

The bereaved cannot communicate with the unbereaved.

All the time when I speak to you, even now, I'm saying not precisely what I think, but what will impress you and make you respond. That's so even between us - and how much more it's so where there are stronger motives for deception. In fact, one's so used to this one hardly sees it. The whole language is a machine for making falsehoods.