terror

One of the dangerous truths: fear is effective, almost magically so. It conjures. It romances the inner demons of actors, who glimpse, as if lit by sheet lightning, the lines laying at their feet that run to our hearts, waiting to make puppets of all, or nearly all. But these threads, strong enough to tangle a nation, are, sweet to tell, only threads. The greater ropes and chains are of love, are seen in the say, and make puppets of none. This is one reason why all life is a middle march, a muddling through, a making of garden plots while the thicker bramble grows.