...is that there are no words in it for the things that really matter.
For instance, why is there no English word that describes the glowing warmth that you feel running through you when you stand under a shower on a cold winter morning and give yourself utterly to the rushing water. A sensation that is both implosion and relief, a reassertion of the self wrapped in a cocoon of flowing warmth, a return to an ur-womb, where muscles become irrelevant. The temptation to just stay there, complicit in the moment's liquidity, safe in the privacy of a heat that no one else can share. And the terrible wrench of having to face the world afterwards, the enormous sense of loss you feel as you turn off the shower knob, sense the cold making its first lecherous advances - the moment passing as easily as the mist you wipe off the mirror to find your own face.
Why is there no word for the innocence of water, its essential forgivingness; for the ease with which it kneads its way through the skin of our defenses, its fingers more skilful than a lover's?
Every time I turn off the shower in the morning I am reminded of Dickinson:
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.