Vladimir Nabokov. Terror
I assume that those sensations—the perplexity before the mirror at night or the sudden pang of death's foretaste—are familiar to many, and if I dwell on them it is only because they contain just a small particle of that supreme terror that I was destined once to experience. Supreme terror, special terror—I am groping for the exact term but my store of ready-made words, which in vain I keep trying on, does not contain even one that will fit.
I led a happy life. I had