Shame (n.) at our shit is not about smell: in it we expose our innermost intimacy — animals don't mind because they have no interior.
Shame (n.) in public is what a moral vacuum lacks: a society where massacre can be celebrated decades later as an ordinary pleasure has lost even that minimum.
Shame (n.) at its purest is Chaplin's Tramp with a swallowed whistle hiccuping: a spectral sound from inside my own body, an organ without a body, a parasite I cannot control.
Shame (n.) in the executioner proves no residual decency; it is the unmistakable sign of the excess of enjoyment he got from his acts.
Shame (n.) is what the question aims at: the agalma, the hidden treasure in me more than me — there is no subject without guilt, the subject exists only as ashamed of the object inside it.