Although I have never been bitten by a dog, I am scared to death of them, as I am of all living creatures, including myself and my own fragmentation in the long hall of mirrors. James Ward, a British psychologist, broke with religion as a young man in 1872 but found himself a bundle of reflexes over which he had no choice and no control. He said: “I have no dread of God, no fear of the Devil, no fear of man, but my head swims as I write it—I fear myself.” What do I mean by fear? Why I mean that thing that drives you to write—but let us step out of the foyer, and back onto the street, back down the road, and make our approach somewhat more slowly.

I could share a story or two that would step out of the foyer and deeper into my cluttered rooms. I prefer, however, the cacophony of the street.

But surely it is no surprise that fear arises mostly from within. A century after Freud, five centuries since Shakespeare, thirty since Job. This is something we have long known.

"Amid thoughts from visions of the night, when deep sleep falls on mortals, dread came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones shake. A spirit glided past my face; the hair of my flesh bristled."(Job 4:13-15)