For Stoker is a film of the body, and of all that can go wrong with the body, though not in a strictly literal sense - there are no deformations of the corps here, only of the mind. But the border between mind and body is easily permeable, and both India and her uncle have lost track of where the it should be. The polar extremes of human physical experience - sex and death - are unsettlingly closely entwined here. Most people have sex to create, but for the Stokers, physical pleasure is synonymous with destruction. When a boy harasses India in the schoolyard, she stabs him with a pencil; when she later kisses a different boy, one who stood up for her, she bites his tongue so hard that he begins to bleed. Sex is life-creating and also, of course, self-destroying; there is a reason that the French call it le petit mort. But Stoker pushes this paradox further than usual: death, here, is not merely symbolic, but an actual fact of arousal.