I'm not psychotic, but I find the macabre and sickening nature of Patrick Bateman and his need to kill and torture oddly ... mesmerizing.
I don't know how to put this without sounding like a total psychopath.
I guess I'm fascinated with the limits of people. For Bateman, the limits were death. Even then, the darkness that took over his soul spread still. It was never enough to kill the girl. He had to torture and bring on as much pain and misery as humanly possible.
The only redeeming aspect of Bret Easton Ellis' book about the pitfalls of consumerism is the opening he leaves open where we can rationalize all of the murderers being fake, being part of Bateman's deeper conciousness and none of it ever happened.
Frankly, it's the best way to finish this book and feel good about it. There's some fucked up shit in this book. No denying. At the same time, I couldn't quit reading. Maybe Ellis is saying something about me, the consumer. Bastard.
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