American Psycho A Novel
Reviews
i had to take breaks reading this because of the sheer gore. insane read. ellis’ writing is fantastic, juggling drastic changes in tone and writing the most unlikeable narrator imaginable but i still couldn’t put the book down. a LOT of slurs.
i couldn’t finish reading this even tho i tried so hard to do so. patrick bateman can you please turn off your thoughts once in a while
So many real & valid reasons to dislike this book; it’s gruesome, beyond violent & gory, filled with slurs & horrible things specifically targeted to women, the homeless & gay people.
But Ellis makes it so obvious throughout the entire story that Patrick is a complete & total loser, for lack of a better word, & it’s this that makes the critique what it is. None of the characters in this book are glorified, & Ellis ensures that the reader knows how much of clown Patrick is to those around him. I’m never reading this book again, once is enough for me to get the message.
I’m also undecided whether Patrick Bateman is actually Patrick Bateman committing all those murders OR whether his name is something else entirely & the murders are more delusions than anything else. There’s evidence for both, but I’m more so leaning towards the latter.
makes its point... over, and over again. would never read again
Brett Easton Ellis - American Psycho . ⭐️ . This is a book that doesn’t age gracefully. I found it tedious and simply a bore while trying to plow thru the pages. Half of the books were probably references of designer names in the 80s (especially American ones, the last time I heard of Bill Blass since the early 90s) . Patrick Bateman, the American psycho, is a narcissist who is a banker by day and murderer by night (or so he thought). He cares so much about his look and abhors others. His life is filled with hanging out with banker friends in night club and snorting cocaines while violating women is also his middle name. . I swear, there’s nothing interesting about this book that isn’t on repeat already since chapter 1. Sorry not sorry . #americanauthors #bretteastonellis #americanpsycho #booksbooksbooks #bookstagram #2023readingchallenge #2023reads #currentlyreading
been reading this shit since november. one of the rare times where the movie is better than the book. patrick bateman, you are so annoying and i’m glad to not be in your head anymore.
a well crafted dark comedy, mocking finance bros. Patrick Bateman is a pathetic man who cares so much about his physical appearance and how rich he is that he will tell you the brand, and price of every single item of clothing he comes across and a whole 2 page skincare routine to come with it. The multiple chapters called "girls" are probably some of the most gruesome pieces of writing i've ever read filled with pornography that had my asexual self putting the book down as it got too much at points, and then the brutal torture of the prostitutes he is sleeping with. A really good read but definitely not for everyone.
new favorite. rtc maybe
i don’t think i really liked it so much as i appreciated it. definitely a horror story. also i think this guy is using satire as a guise to air his racist and sexist ideas.
Whatever I was expecting from this book, I didn't get. I was hoping for some critique or insight into the depths of Wall Street yuppies and white-collar sociopaths in 1980s New York. Instead, I got a strange, disjointed journey of one supremely dysfunctional man and his nightly crimes, interspersed with his diatribes on pop music and his vapid meanderings with even more vapid friends. Much name-dropping of Donald Trump, which was jarring due to present consequences, but accurate, as he's always been the proto-Patrick Bateman (apart from (view spoiler)[the murdering and cannibalism, of course.) (hide spoiler)] Aside from his run-ins with celebrities of the time - an awkward elevator meeting with Tom Cruise and a concert where he meets Bono - the book is frustratingly linear and one-note. The book is really no more or less than that. There's nothing really to learn here aside from sociopaths being broken and empty (which I suppose might be the point) but I don't see much use for nihilism for nihilism's sake. Yes, we get that Patrick is a detached psycho; we don't need pages of prurient detail for (view spoiler)[how he rips out intestines and shoots children in the head (hide spoiler)]. It's shocking, but I would find more value in reading the manifestos and ramblings of actual serial killers instead of a fictional one, and I don't even think there's that much value in either. I would never recommend this to anyone, but for some reason, I wanted to see American Psycho through to the end, which of course was anti-climactic (view spoiler)[though I think a little darkly clever, as he confesses but no one will believe him (hide spoiler)]. I might have enjoyed the movie better as a more dramatic and condensed version. At 400 pages, the book is simply too prolonged and pronounced. Ellis clearly has talent and a vision; it's just not one that I find especially worthwhile.
Expresses the sometimes frightening juxtaposition of humanity and exposes those who hide behind a facade of deceit to show the evil that lurks.
An sich ist es toll geschrieben und mit Pat Bateman wurde ein sehr vielschichtiger, komplizierter und metaphorischer Charakter geschaffen, der eine gute Grundlage für das Ziel des Autoren, nämlich die Kritik an einer kapitalistischen ignoranten Gesellschaft, bietet. Allerdings wiederholen sich die Szenen irgendwann zu oft, der Ton überschreitet die Grenze zwischen gewagt und nur noch vulgär und das ganze zieht sich über 500 Seiten, obwohl nach etwa 300 die Nachricht bereits angekommen wäre.
an incredible novel. speaking purely of the text, adaptation, and fans of it aside, it's a chilling piece of literature that manages to achieve what it set out to do so well.
there are a lot of narrative structures and literary devices, writing choices in general, that make the novel what it is. the pop music essays, and countless descriptions of all the brands. the book is actually insane and psychotic in the day-to-day scenarios, rather than the murder, making you actually? understand patrick bateman? FUCK WALL STREET!!!!
it's also really fucking funny.
an excruciating read. the only positive is the fact that i’ll never have to read this book ever again.
i don’t know, seems normal to me. really brutal read, hard to get through at some points. tedious at other times, but usually strikes a nice, readable balance. reminds me of a consumerist dostoevsky, down to the interpolation of the human adaptation quote.
Could have been worse
disturbing, read it for class.
seriously watch the movie first before reading the book. If you think the movie is gruesome already… don’t read it
I can’t and won’t fix him
"American Psycho" de Bret Easton Ellis es una novela intensa y controvertida que se adentra en la mente de Patrick Bateman, un yuppie de Wall Street en la década de 1980 obsesionado con la superficialidad, el consumismo y la violencia. Publicada en 1991, la obra ha generado debates y ha sido aclamada como una crítica feroz a la sociedad y la cultura de la época. La trama sigue a Bateman mientras navega por la vida en Nueva York, mostrando su despiadada vida cotidiana, sus relaciones superficiales y, lo más inquietante, sus oscuros impulsos asesinos. La narrativa, a menudo gráfica y perturbadora, cuestiona la autenticidad de la realidad y la moralidad en un mundo obsesionado con la apariencia. Ellis utiliza la narrativa en primera persona para sumergir a los lectores en la mente de Bateman, lo que crea una experiencia impactante y desconcertante. La obra desafía a los lectores a cuestionar la naturaleza de la realidad, explorando temas de alienación, deshumanización y la descomposición moral de la sociedad. "American Psycho" ha sido elogiada por su estilo narrativo único y su capacidad para capturar la decadencia moral de una era. Sin embargo, también ha sido objeto de críticas debido a su violencia gráfica y la representación del protagonista, que plantea preguntas sobre la responsabilidad del autor en la influencia de la obra en la sociedad. En resumen, "American Psycho" es una obra impactante que provoca reflexiones profundas sobre la cultura materialista y la naturaleza de la realidad. La escritura provocativa de Ellis y la creación de un personaje tan complejo como Patrick Bateman hacen de esta novela una lectura desafiante y memorable para aquellos dispuestos a explorar los aspectos más oscuros de la condición humana.
** spoiler alert ** I don’t know why but I didn’t expect such horrific descriptions. There were moments were I just had to close the book and throw it out of my sight. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It’s really well written and it makes you want to keep reading but oh my… I may have lost too much sanity points on this, with little pleasure.
so. many. thoughts. firstly, shoutout to whoever told me the book is way more fucked up than the movie—you were right, haha! nevertheless, this is stupidly enjoyable even though reading certain parts made me physically shudder (not an understatement, anyone on my train probably thought i was having spasms). i’ve also got to respect the actual genius (still don’t get your problem with the movie, brett) it takes to somehow make the reader forget bateman is a literal serial killer in between each violent episode—maybe it’s just me but the hilariously superficial day-to-day narrative made every time he reverted back to his psychotic behaviour weirdly surprising. this conveys the whole message (or at least my interpretation) of the book so well as even as someone who is probably the antithesis of a wall street yuppie, i don’t necessarily view bateman as the “bad guy”. definitely wouldn’t recommend this lightly (obviously) because it’s an unusual one for me to like so if you do ever read it and it’s not your thing, i request immunity from any judgement. regrets include: telling a 70yo economics teacher at my school to read this and not skimming past some of the s3x scenes.
dnfed, excruciatingly boring i get thats the point, to show the contrast between his extremely boring lifestyle & the violence he partakes in with the same lack of emotions but damn this is just painful to read, I DO NOT CARE ABOUT THE BRAND OF EVERY ITEM EVERY CHARACTER OWNS PLEASE
this book is so relatable
Highlights
My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this -and I have, countless times, in just about every act I've committed- and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. ." she time. "I don't no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing…
… while I grind bone and fat and flesh into patties, and though it does sporadically penetrate how unacceptable some of what I'm doing actually is, I just remind myself that this thing, this girl, this meat, is nothing, is shit, and along with a Xanax (which I am now taking half-hourly) this thought momentarily calms me and then…
"I think, Evelyn, that ..." I start, stall, start again. ".. that we’ve lost touch.”
“Why? What's wrong?" She's waving to a couple Lawrence Montgomery and Geena Webster, I think-and from across the room Geena (?) holds up her hand, which has a bracelet on it. Evelyn nods approvingly.
“My… my need to engage in… homicidal behaviour on a massive scale cannot be, um, corrected,” I tell her, measuring each word carefully. “But I… have no other way to express my blocked… needs.” I’m surprised at how emotional this admission makes me, and it wears me down; I feel light-headed.
guilt? Probably not
As usual, in an attempt to understand these girls I’m filming their deaths.
I don’t understand this at all? I know he doesn’t have the capacity to relate to humans on any deep & meaningful level, but I don’t understand this, it’s confusing.
Though I’m satisfied at first by my actions, I’m suddenly jolted with a mournful despair at how useless, how extraordinarily painless, it is to take a child’s life. The thing before me, small and twisted and bloody, has no real history, no real worthwhile past, nothing is really lost. It’s so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has the beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child’s would, perhaps ruin many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy.
soooo beyond evil
Everything failed to subdue me. Soon everything seemed dull: another sunrise, the lives of heroes, falling in love, war, the discoveries people made about each other. The only thing that didn't bore me, obviously enough, was how much money Tim Price made, and yet in its obviousness it did. There wasn't a clear, identifiable emotion within me, expect for greed, and possibly, total disgust. I had all the characteristics of a human being- flesh, blood, skin, hair- but my depersonalisation was so intense, had gone so deep, that the normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure. I was simply imitating reality, a rough resemblance of a human being, with only a dim corner of my mind functioning. Something horrible was happening and yet I couldn’t figure out why- I couldn’t put my finger on it. The only thing that calmed me was the satisfying sound of ice being dropped into a glass of J&B.
Life remained a blank canvas, a cliche, a soap opera. I felt lethal, on the verge of frenzy. My nightly bloodlust overflowed into my days and I had to leave the city. My mask of sanity was a victim of impending slippage. This was the gone season for me and I needed a vacation. I needed to go to the Hamptons.
On my way over to Park Avenue to find a cab I pass an ugly, homeless bum- a member of the genetic underclass- and when he softly pleads for change, for “anything”, I notice a Barnes & Noble book bag that sits next to him on the steps of the church he’s begging on and I can’t help but smirk, out loud, “Oh right, like you read…” and then, in the back of the cab on the way across town to my apartment, I imagine running around Central Park on a cool spring afternoon with Jean, laughing, holding hands. We buy balloons, we let them go.
Eleven thirty-four. We stand on the sidewalk in front of Jean’s apartment on the Upper East Side. Her doorman eyes us warily and fills me with nameless dread, his gaze piercing me from the lobby. A curtain of stars, miles of them, are scattered, glowing, across the sky and their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. She shrugs and nods after I say something about forms of anxiety. It’s as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there… is… no… key.
“Damien. You’re Damien,” I think I hear Sean mutter.
“What did you say?” I ask, looking up. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Nice tan,” he sighs. “I said nice tan.”
Confused bc I really dont think the narrator is actually called Patrick Bateman
While taking a piss in the men’s room, I stare into a thin, weblike crack above the urinals handle and think to myself that if I were to disappear into that crack, say somehow miniaturise and slip into it, the odds are good that no one would notice I was gone. No… one… would… care. In fact some, if they noticed my absence, might feel an odd, undefinable sense of relief. This is true: the world is better off with some people gone.
like he’s miserable
Some kind of existential chasm opens before me while I’m browsing Bloomingdale’s and causes me to first locate a phone and check my messages, then, near tears, after taking three Halcion (since my body has mutated and adapted to the drug it no longer causes sleep- it just seems to ward off total madness), I head toward the Clinique counter where with my platinum American Express card I buy six tubes of shaving cream while flirting nervously with the girls who work there and I decide this emptiness, has, at least in part, some connection with the way I treated Evelyn at Barcadia the other night, though there is always the possibility…
…, but I’m still longing for something deeper, something undefined to do beforehand, and I start to stalk the dark, cold streets off Central Park West and I catch sight of my face reflected in the tinted windows of a limousine that’s parked in front of Cafe de Artistes and my mouth is moving involuntarily, my tongue wetter than usual, and my eyes are blinking uncontrollably of their own accord. In the street lamps glare, my shadow is vividly cast on the wet pavement and I can see my gloved hands moving, alternately clutching themselves into fists, fingers stretching, wriggling, and I have to stop myself in the middle of Sixty-seventh Street to calm myself down, whisper soothing thoughts, anticipating D’Agostino’s, a reservation at Dorsia, the new Mike and the Mechanics CD, and it takes an awesome amount of strength to fight down the urge to start slapping myself in the face.
Facial at Elizabeth Arden, buying kitchen utensils at the Pottery Barn (all of this, by the way, on lithium) before coming down to Harry’s where we had drinks with Charles Murphy and Rusty Webster, and where Courtney forgot the bag of Pottery Barn utensils she’d put underneath our table.
“I wanted to come over,” she says in a whiny, little-girl tone. “I was scared. I still am. Can’t you hear it in my voice?”
“Actually, you sound like anything but,”
“No, Patrick, seriously, I’m quite terrified,” she says. “I’m shaking. Just like a leaf I’m shaking. Ask Mia, my facialist. She said I was tense.”
I love this humour
above the building like a backdrop is a moonless sky, which earlier, in the afternoon, was hung with clouds but tonight isn’t.
he lowers his head and … kisses my left wrist, and when he looks back up at me, shyly, it’s with an expression that’s … loving
murder attempt gone wrong i almost laughed out loud
I don’t see how he can ignore its subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I started this.
it rlly isn’t that serious it’s just a business card
I make myself another drink. I worry about the sodium levels in the soy sauce.
why is he…. kinda funny??? but he’s a psychopath …??
Christ sakes —— you can get dyslexia from pussy ——
what a start
"they have the best Waldorf salad"
had no idea what it is so googled it, it looks disgusting
platinum american express card
fucking prick
i'm running down broadway, then up broadway, then down again, screaming like a banshee
god he's pathetic
Während sie fort war, kotzte ich - einfach nur so - in die rustikalen Terrakotta-Schalen, die den Patio säumten, oder ich fuhr mit dem schaurigen Masseur in die Stadt und holte Rasierklingen. Nachts stülpte ich Evelyn einen Lampenschirm aus Betonimitat und Aluminiumdraht von Jerry Kott auf den Kopf, und weil sie so mit Halcion zugeknallt war, schob sie ihn auch nicht weg, und obwohl ich darüber lachte, wenn der Lampenschirm sich mit jedemn ihrer schweren Atemzüge hob und senkte, machte es mich bald traurig, und ich hörte auf, den Lampenschirm über Evelyns Kopf zu stülpen. Nichts schaffte mir Erleichterung. Bald wurde alles schal: noch ein Sonnenaufgang, Heldenleben, große Liebe, Krieg, Entdeckungen, die Menschen übereinander machen.
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