The Impulse to Look: Catharsis and the Allure of Violence

♦ Josephine Nichols ♦

When the Greeks aimed to confront their fears, they visited the theater. Suffering had narrative structure; death had dialogue. Tragedy was a collective ritual—something to be witnessed, then released at the closing of a curtain. Today, we turn to the internet. A screen has replaced the stage, and the performance is unending. 

What Aristotle once called catharsis—the purging of emotion through art—has become something chaotic and decentralized through graphic online displays of real-world violence. What could possibly drive a large demographic of internet users to consume such abhorrent violence? Morbid curiosity? Suppressed psychopathy? In reality, many turn to virtual gore not out of sadism or apathy, but because it satisfies an ancient psychological and aesthetic impulse for catharsis, that our modern, media-saturated world no longer provides in healthy form.

The Aristotelian concept of catharsis originates from the Greek word κάθαρσις—katharsis—directly translating to ‘cleansing’ or ‘purification’. Theorized by Aristotle in the 4th century B.C., catharsis touches on the importance of “emotional cleansing”—the philosopher believed that to maintain psychological health, occasional encounters with violence in mediated, controlled environments were essential . In his time, this came in the form of tragic theater: prominent playwrights such as Sophocles, Euripides, and Aeschylus explored the deepest and most morbid fascinations in the human psyche. They toyed with violence and emotion-inducing plots, often ending in grief and suffering. The caveat, however, remained in its contained nature: the violence and suffering existed only in script and once the show came to a close, the audience could move on with their personal lives.

The term “gore”—directly meaning bloodshed or filth—derives from Old English. Uses of the word “gor” can be dated back to prior to the 12th century, often meaning “dirt” or “dung”. But in the late 1990s to early 2000s, the prominent understanding of this word shifted in the mainstream. The onset of the modern internet and proliferation of shock sites online led to a shift in gore’s definition: what once meant dirt or filth now is synonymous with uncensored depictions of nonfictional violence, such as executions or freak accidents. But unlike the ritualized violence of ancient tragedy, today’s gore lacks structure, meaning, and moral frame. What was once a symbolic and meticulous purification has become an unending spectacle—one that both repels and fascinates humans as a collective.

As writer Susan Sontag argues in her essay Regarding the Pain of Others, exposure to real-life suffering desensitizes individuals to the impact and devastation of others’ pain. She explains that the consumption of violent photography evokes an appeal that is both voyeuristic and empathetic in nature. This same paradoxical appeal translates directly to the general fascination with online gore: while most believe they are empathetic in nature, there is a dark fascination with the unknown—most notably death—that lies within all of us. And in the economy of virtual attention, a piece of media that lies at the intersection of voyeuristic curiosity and distressed empathy is extremely valuable to online algorithms: it attracts attention whether viewers intend to consume it or not. 

Take the graphic recording of conservative political commentator Charlie Kirk’s assassination, for example. On September 10th, 2025, Kirk was shot dead during a public debate series tour in Orem, Utah. This event was extensively recorded by audience members; naturally, at the time of the sniping, the moment was caught in perfect resolution by those in the front rows. That same day, the graphic recording of Kirk’s death in real time was spread all across social media. Whether those who consumed it were in support of the commentator’s prior actions or not, it was seen by millions across different platforms and shared among countless virtual communities. I, myself, stumbled upon the video on X—formerly Twitter—against my will the same day that the event occurred. It was extremely disturbing and graphic—not something I would normally seek out on my own—but X’s predominantly unmoderated algorithm led to the video being plastered everywhere. I tried to avoid it, but I couldn’t resist watching whenever it would reappear. This wasn’t because I was intrigued or fascinated by the violence itself, but because I had a glimpse into something I—and most other humans—fear most on a fundamental level: death. 

This phenomenon can be explained by psychologist Sigmund Freud’s theory of the Death Instinct or Thanatos. Here, he argues that humanity is driven by two “basic instincts”: life and death. While desire for life and pleasure—often referred to as Eros—is a large factor in the human psyche, the attraction towards death, destruction, or the return to a pre-life or inorganic state is often misunderstood. Freud’s theory says that this death drive manifests itself both through aggression or self-destructive behavior and through repetition compulsion: reenacting traumatic or painful events even in the absence of pleasure. This theory can be applied to the modern fascination with gore in the sense that it is a “safe” and controlled way to interact with death and violence—much like the appeal of cathartic Ancient Greek theater. If humans carelessly indulged in the “death drive”, humanity would not survive on an evolutionary level, thus self-preservation instincts get in the way. Gore content allows for a careful peek into the reality of violence without getting close enough as to harm the audience.  

Ultimately, the digital consumption of violence is less an expression of cruelty than of instinctual deprivation. In a world where emotion is flattened by constant exposure and entertainment never ends, virtual gore becomes a desperate substitute for the structured catharsis ancient art forms once provided. Aristotle’s version of theater allowed audiences to purge fear and pity in a controlled environment with a set beginning and end, but the internet offers no designated curtain call—only endless reenactments of suffering stripped of context or meaning, leaving only pure violence and chaos. What we witness today is not the death of catharsis, but its distortion: a cleansing impulse seeking expression in an age too overstimulated to process it accordingly. In trying to feel taboo emotions, we turn to what shocks us most—and in doing so, reveal how profoundly starved we are of genuine emotional release.