Quotha

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
—Maya Angelou

Every so often in this life, you run across a tidbit of supposed fact that makes you suspect you are being subjected to a diabolically thorough practical joke. The supposed fact in this case is that a reputedly sane human being could utter the arrant codswallop reproduced above.

In my time I have had hundreds of untold stories inside me, and most of them are still there; most of them, like kidney stones, will probably remain there the rest of my days and be buried with me. And like the general run of the smaller stones, most of them never gave me any trouble. Indeed, the pain comes only when I try to pass one. As for outright agony, the most intense pain I have ever had was from an attack of shingles, which so inflamed the nerves in my chest that the mere touch of a shirt made me feel as if I were being stabbed through the heart. The most intense prolonged pain I have had was from an attack of gout in a sprained toe; and the most intense incurable pain I have had was from bleak, black, blinding suicidal depression. That is an emotional pain that overflows into the body until it physically hurts just to breathe.

If Ms. Angelou really is being quoted correctly, I can only surmise that she has never had any actual pain in her life — or that she is an unmitigated drama queen and a thoroughly inept liar.