Holding that a definite conception of fear could not be formulated, Reginald Rance opined that it failed even as a description of pragmatic conduct. “The notion of terror is so indefinite,” he said, jutting out his jaw, “that although many artists—filmmakers, authors, composers—wish to produce it, very few can predict with any certainty how to do so.” He coughed. “My fifth cousin,” he said, and trailed off. “My fifth cousin,” he said again. He was speaking, of course, of the renowned director Anson Rance, the “Sultan of Slash.” Now his eyes were wet with tears. “For a man to determine with certainty what would make another man afraid, he would have to be omniscient.” He fled the stage and called his mother, who had met the great man once. “If this is true of the individual,” he said, “think of how various must be the notions of dread which prevail among the species in general.” His mother did not answer. What no one knew was that she had just closed her medicine cabinet and seen a face reflected in the mirror.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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