So much the rather thou, Celestial Light,
Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers
Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence
Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell
Of things invisible to mortal sight.
— John Milton, Paradise Lost
Fear moves in opposing directions. The (William) James-Lange theory posits that fear is one of four basic emotions — the others being grief, love, and rage — that resides within our innermost worlds as emergent from the body. Emotion is the result of physiological signs apprehended as meaning: I feel fear because my hands shake; because a chill settles into the mornings; because I cannot seem to lie down at a regular hour. We can respond to danger — a worldly condition or value — but fear is a rather different beast: not an answer to an object, but a structure of being. Fear is its own response. It demands nothing of us, and outputs nothing.
Yet fear is not content to be an interior feeling. The ability to perceive another’s fear has been evolutionarily selected for by all before us, so much so that Paul Ekman can identify it as one of seven universally understood facial expressions. We know it when we see it: the pulled eyebrows, tensed eyelids, slightly opened mouth. Or perhaps when we hear it: the shrunken voice, a tremor. And what about on the page — a glancing line, an overreadied brushstroke? Fear is involuntarily communicated, yet its interiority as the product of one’s body somewhat deprives it of responsive, generative, or reproductive power. We watch a “horror” movie or a clip of atrocities near and far because horror can generate an equivalent response in the firsthand and secondhand viewer; we speak of facing or seeking “danger” to change some state of the world. We can only “confront” our own fears, and “to fear for” someone else can only be the emotive last resort when nothing else can be done.
Does fear seek to be understood? I learned much about fear this winter: I can tell you that I am in the most fearful time of my life. I cannot be more specific here for fear of personal repercussions — as is the case with most of the worst fears — nor, I noticed, did I particularly feel the need to explain to others. Nor did it help me write. Rather than an internal conclusion or external gag, fear felt like a binding chill. I found solace in reading George Eliot; in eating my parents’ cooking; even in studying for a certain admissions exam that taught me more language to describe fear (Cannon-Bard, norepinephrine) than would ever be truthful. I copied poetry for my friends on postcards. Shine inward. Irradiate.
As I write, The Harvard Advocate begins its 160th year, and there is a big snowstorm. Much stays the same: our address is 21 South Street; our favorite pet is Bronco; our favorite drink is the gin and tonic. And our motto is Dulce est periculum — danger is sweet. Yet rather than pushing fledgling Dangers out into the world, today’s conditions gather us in fear. Even endangering our institution, our oldest and most milquetoast tradition, seems less in vogue now when even greater forces are pushing our protective shell inwards. I do not see Fear as our muse nor agree with those that accuse it of being an excuse for verbal and physical inaction. Rather, fear is the texture of our individual and collective conditions. Fear informs the Spring 2026 Issue by reminding us how we must create: not in spite of or because of it, but rather in its midst.
Frank Y.C. Liu
President
2026