We had no wish to write such a question,
and we knew not what we were doing till
we had written it. We shall not ask
this question and we shall not think it.
We shall not call death upon our head.

And yet . . . And yet . . .
There is some word, one single word
which is not in the language of men,
but which had been. And this is the
Unspeakable Word, which no men may speak
nor hear. But sometimes, and it is rare,
sometimes, somewhere, one among men find
that word. They find it upon scraps of old
manuscripts or cut into the fragments of
ancient stones. But when they speak it
they are put to death. There is no crime
punished by death in this world, save this
one crime of speaking the Unspeakable Word.

We have seen one of such men burned
alive in the square of the City. And it was
a sight which has stayed with us through
the years, and it haunts us, and follows us,
and it gives us no rest. We were a child
then, ten years old. And we stood in the
great square with all the children and all the
men of the City, sent to behold the burning.
They brought the Transgressor out into
the square and they led them to the pyre.