Horror (n.) is the rustling of the there is.
Horror (n.) does not come from danger: Macbeth would face the rugged Russian bear, but trembles before the shadow of being.
Horror (n.) of being may be older than anxiety over death: the fear of being comes before the fear for being, and may explain it.
Horror (n.) carries out the condemnation to perpetual reality — Phaedra finding nowhere to hide, the whole world full of her forefathers.
Horror (n.) strips consciousness of its subjectivity — not by lulling it to sleep but by throwing it into an impersonal vigilance.
Horror (n.) of darkness is not caused by the things the night hides; those things get their fantastic look from the horror — the anonymous being that sweats in them.
Horror (n.) is nowise an anxiety about death; it is the impossibility of death — existence still universal in its annihilation.