The form of art called fiction has always been the privileged framework providing the perfect alibi for facing, framing, and containing the Other's desire and the strange libido attached to violence: in other words, there is an ambivalent dimension inherent in the scenarios and fantasies we enjoy by proxy. Are not the fairy tales of our childhood full of images of death and violence, whose fascinating presence is paradoxically meant to make us feel all the more safely tucked up in bed? After all, the wolf or the Little Red Riding Hood, the monstrous killer or the unfortunate victim are but fictitious characters, mere shifting positions: they are "not me" therefore, thanks to the willing suspension of disbelief process, any reading "I" may shift into their speech or thoughts on the fictional screen, a stage both for projection of and protection from such forbidden enjoyments.