You know what's tough to do? Conveying to your friends why a work of art leaves you reeling. And God forbid if you react to genre art.

It's hard to understand why, exactly, one reacts to art. Exploring that particular alleyway is ultimately stupid; no matter what you do, the person to whom you speak cannot possibly have the same emotional investment you have.

People are confronted by art constantly, however one defines it. How they react to that art is rooted in themselves, however one defines "self." It is not for nothing that many couples unite based on their shared appreciation of a particular work.  Not that thist happens all that often; rare is the romance based on mutual communication from day one. One might argue that art exists as much for the possibility of communication as it does for the desire to mark one's existence to future generations.

I believe that the best television series ever produced is Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This is not an opinion shared by anyone I know personally. But since the series ended in 2003, I have watched the various shows in the conversation for GOAT of television series, and my opinion has remained unchanged. While I do love those other shows, for me, Buffy remains the best. And yet many of the people involved with the series struggle to scrape by, both financially and artistically.

So how does one "spread the word?" And more to the point, should one spread the word? I have tried in the past (Buffy's been gone 11 years now), but at this point I'm thinking that the horse is out of the barn. It's not that the show is dated (although I cringe watching the episode where Big Bad Voodoo Daddy plays the Bronze). It's more that the show is no longer novel; people simply no longer expect Spike, Drusilla or Angelus to show up looking for an artistic feed.

If you like, I could list several episodes of the series, and of its spinoff, Angel, that absolutely ripped my heart out. Three episodes in 2001 alone left me reeling, to the point that even now, well over a decade later, I find myself returning to them in the darkest hours of the night.

Which, of course, is not the point at all. As Jubal Harshaw once said, "art is the process of evoking pity and terror." And what evokes those two feelings for a particular person are probably more unique than a fingerprint.

So what do we do? Assuming that we -- for whatever reason, although one hopes the action is rooted in empathy -- want to know what evokes pity and terror in others, how do we reach it?

Ultimately, I think we have to listen to one another. And that ain't easy.