Quotes from Bret Easton Ellis

Why wasn't Donald Trump invited to your party?

Some clowns make you laugh, but Bobo will make you die, and then he'll eat your body.

I've started drinking my own urine. I laugh spontaneously at nothing. Sometimes I sleep under my futon. I'm flossing my teeth constantly until my gums are aching and my mouth tastes like blood.

The Patty Winters Show this morning was in two parts. The first was an exclusive interview with Donald Trump, the second was a report on women who've been tortured.

I mean I tell her I'm sensitive. I told her I was freaked out by the Challenger accident—what more does she want?

I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do?

All frontiers, if there had ever been any, seem suddenly detachable and have been removed, a feeling that others are creating my fate will not leave me for the rest of the day. This… is… not… a… game, I want to shout, but I can't catch my breath though I don't think she can tell.

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. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling.

it did not occur to me, ever, that people were good or that a man was capable of change or that the world could be a better place through one's taking pleasure in a feeling or a look or a gesture, of receiving another person's love or kindness... God is not alive. Love cannot be trusted.

and above the building like a backdrop is a moonless sky, which earlier, in the afternoon, was hung with clouds but tonight isn't.

BMW." He smiles. "Little black beamer.

I'm having a difficult time containing my disordered self.

Here's the dead end of social media: after you've created your own bubble that reflects only what you relate to or what you identify with, after you've blocked and unfollowed people whose opinions and worldview you judge and disagree with, after you've created your own little utopia based on your cherished values, then a kind of demented narcissism begins to warp this pretty picture.

The seeds of love have taken hold and if we won't burn together I'll burn alone.

This forced you to look again at the people who raised them, coddling them with praise and trying to shield them from the grim sides of life, which might well have created children who, as adults, appeared highly confident, competent and positive but at the hint of darkness or negativity often became paralyzed and unable to react except with disbelief and tears—You just victimized me!—and retreated, in effect, into their childhood bubbles.

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.

Romeo Void blared out of the sunroof.

Reflection is useless, the world is senseless. Evil is it's only permanence. God is not alive. Love cannot be trusted. Surface, surface, surface was all that anyone found meaning in.

I'd never been a true believer that politics can solve the dark heart of humanity's problems and the lawlessness of our sexuality, or that a bureaucratic band aid is going to heal the deep contradictory rifts and the cruelty, the passion and the fraudulence that factor into what it means to be human.

Disintegration--I'm taking it in stride.

It's an article on your hero, Donald Trump." McDermott grins.

So…" Kimball looks at his book helplessly. "There's nothing you can tell me about Paul Owen?" "Well." I sigh. "He led what I suppose was an orderly life, I guess." Really stumped, I offer, "He… ate a balanced diet.

It moved me away from the narcissism of childhood and into the world's mysteries—the unexplained, the taboo, the other—and drew me closer to a place of understanding and acceptance.

Everything has been degraded by what the sensory overload and the supposed freedom-of-choice technology has brought to us, and, in short, by the democratization of the arts.