Call it what you like.

I went to Prague once under the old days of the Communist regime. I thought, Whatever happens to me here, I’m not going to mention Franz Kafka in my essay. I’m going to be the first journalist not to do it. I went to a meeting of the opposition underground; somebody betrayed us, because the secret police came in and suddenly, “Wham!” like this, broke down the door, dogs, torches, rubber truncheons, the lot. Slammed me against the wall: “You’re under arrest!”. “Well, I demand to see the British Ambassador,” blah, blah. “You’re under arrest!” “What’s the charge?” “We don’t have to tell you that.” I thought, Fuck I’ve got to mention Kafka after all.