Like [Georges] Bataille and his image of a bullfighter's eyeball, the horror image—the image of trauma—haunts the darkest corners of our memory. That which has been seen cannot be unseen, and that which remains unseen remains limited to the realm of speculation. If, as Lovecraft said in his essay "Supernatural Horror In Literature," fear is the "oldest and strongest emotion of mankind," then can we not assume that the prisoners in Plato's cave spent a great deal of their time haunted by the shapes of the shadows on the wall? How often must the fingers of those flickering shadows have appeared as slithering serpents? If these prisoners truly had no understanding of life beyond their imprisonment—or perhaps even no conception of their imprisonment—then we can only imagine what those fears were, what strange stories unfolded beneath the hiss and crackle of those blackening flames. This is not unlike how we continually create and consume images of violence and horror, whether in writing or films. Much like the vampire—monster incarnate, death itself—creating more death by feeding on the living, we, as human beings, have an unbearable need to witness the suffering of others as a way of affirming our very existence. To put it another way, we feed on images of death and suffering in order to feel alive. Fear, after all, is a product of our senses, a warning induced by perceived threat. It is a necessary aspect for the survival of our—and perhaps all—species. Looking deeper, we can differentiate between two distinct ways in which fear directly affects action. If we know why we're scared we can subsequently articulate that fear to others. Hopefully they'll understand our situation and offer to help in some way. In this sense, fear drives us to seek company. Other times, however, fear exists as nothing more than vague dread or anxiety. The threat isn't so much perceived as it is lurking in the periphery. This sort of fear is isolating and drives us deeper within the self.
