Quotes from Bret Easton Ellis

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.

MANY YEARS AGO I REALIZED THAT A BOOK, a novel, is a dream that asks itself to be written in the same way we fall in love with someone: the dream becomes impossible to resist, there's nothing you can do about it, you finally give in and succumb even if your instincts tell you to run the other way because this could be, in the end, a dangerous game—someone will get hurt.

Oh come on, don't look that way. You have nothing to be ashamed of." "I'm not," she says, trying to act casual. "I just want to know if you're disappointed in me for admitting this." How could she ever understand that there isn't any way I could be disappointed since I no longer find anything worth looking forward to? "You don't know much about me, do you?" I ask teasingly.

I had to put this slim volume back into my bookshelf and drink a J&B on the rocks, followed by two Xanax, to recover from the effort.

So many people died last year: the accidental overdose, the car wreck in East Hampton, the surprise illness. People just disappeared. I fall asleep to the music coming from the Abbey, a song from the past, "Hungry Like the Wolf," rising faintly above the leaping chatter of the club, transporting me for one long moment into someone both young and old. Sadness: it's everywhere.

I realize I have nothing to say to Trent Burroughs as I tell him, "I've been in New York the last four months." New Age Christmas music fails to warm up the chilly vibe. I'm suddenly unsure about everything.

Honey?" she asks. "Don't call me that," I snap. "What? Honey?" she asks. "Yes," I snap again. "What do you want me to call you?" she asks, indignantly. "CEO?" She stifles a giggle. "Oh Christ." "No, really Patrick. What do you want me to call you?" King, I'm thinking.

if another round of Bellinis comes within a twenty-foot radius of this table we are going to set the maître d' on fire.

There was a romance to that analog era, an ardency, an otherness that is missing in the post-Empire digital age where everything has ultimately come to feel disposable.

Walking with Debbie, our sunglasses on, I suddenly felt I was a model in a commercial, we were a couple in a travelogue who barely knew each other, which led to the notion that I was actually begin watched, that everyone was looking at me, whether they were or not, or that someone hidden, from a vantage point I couldn't see, was monitoring my movements.

And then I flashed on: When you talk to me you're really talking to yourself, dude. I was still haunted by it.

I'm tired, William. I'm tired of you. I'm tired of these parties. I'm tired." "The tone of your voice could have fooled me," he says, taking my arm roughly. "Just smile, okay? Just until we get past the photographers, then I don't give a fuck what you do." "You Ã¢â'¬Â¦ are Ã¢â'¬Â¦ awful," I say. "You're not much better," he says, pulling me along.

How can I tell McDermott that this is a very disjointed time of my life and that I notice the walls have been painted a bright, almost painful white and under the glare of the fluorescent lights they seem to pulse and glow.

I have to return some video tapes. – Patrick Bateman's all-purpose exit excuse in American Psycho

Todo el mundo tiene meido. Pero si nos mantenemos unidos, si intentamos estar disponibles para los otros, ya no tendremos miedo.

God, the name Susan is so ugly. It reminds me of the word sinus.

El olor a castañas asadas se mezcla con el anhídrido carbónico de los escapes.

but hey, she works in a video rental store and since it's such a demanding high-powered profession her bitchy behavior is completely reasonable, right? The

I have a lunch meeting with Cliff Huxtable at The Four Seasons in twenty minutes anyway," I lie, standing up. "I have to go too.

She immediately moves into me and says she is sorry and then she's guiding me toward the bedroom and this is the way I always wanted the scene to play out and then it does and it has to because it doesnt really work for me unless it happens like this.

This is reality, and as my loathsome brother Sean would say, I have to deal with it. The

and before I can stop it I find myself almost dazzled and moved that I might have the capacity to accept, though not return, her love.

The office Halloween party was at the Royalton last week and I went as a mass murderer, complete with a sign painted on my back that read MASS MURDERER (which was decidedly lighter than the sandwich board I had constructed earlier that day that read DRILLER KILLER), and beneath those two words I had written in blood Yep, that's me.

I hear it, can actually feel, can even make out the letters of the message hovering above Bono's head in orange wavy letters: "I … am … the … devil … and I am … just … like … you …