Quotes from Bret Easton Ellis

What do you want, Patrick? she sighs. I just want peace, love, friendship, understanding, I say dispassionately.

Baby, when you were young and your heart was an open book, you used to say live and let live. You know you did, you know you did, you know you did.

It's a powerful statement and one that Whitney sings with a grandeur that approaches the sublime. Its universal message crosses all boundaries and instills one with the hope that it's not too late for us to better ourselves, to act kinder. Since it's impossible in the world we live in to empathize with others, we can always empathize with ourselves. It's an important message, crucial really, and it's beautifully stated in this album.

If you can't make a girl come why even bother? That always seemed to me to be like writing questions in a letter.

The reassuring smile was now useless. I was plastic. Everything was veiled. Objectivity, facts, hard information--these were things only in the outline stage. There was nothing tying anything together yet, so the mind built up a defense, and the evidence was restructured, and that was what I tried to do on that morning--to restructure the evidence so it made sense--and that is what I failed at.

Everything suddenly seems displaced, subtle gradations erase borders, but it's more forceful than that.

No I'm not," I whisper to myself. "I'm a fucking evil psychopath.

Do you wear a diaphragm everywhere you go?' I want to scream, but stop myself because the idea really excites me.

Women aren't very bright, Rip says. Studies have been done.

he looked at me with such vehemence that I felt like a blip, a fart, in the course of his life.

Before I leave, the Eurotrash girl tells me she likes my gazelleskin wallet. I tell her I would like to tit-fuck her and then maybe cut her arms off, but the music, George Michael singing "Faith," is too loud and she can't hear me. Back upstairs I find Patricia where I left her

The things I could do to you with a coat hanger.

You do not write a novel for praise, or thinking of your audience. You write for yourself; you work out between you and your pen the things that intrigue you

where are we going?' I asked. 'I don't know,' he said. 'just driving.' 'But this road doesn't go anywhere,' I told him. 'That doesn't matter.' 'What does?' I asked, after a little while. 'Just that we're on it, dude,' he said.

My nightly blood lust overflowed into my days and I had to leave the city. My mask of sanity was a victim of impending slippage.

How do I know you're not crazy? she asks. How do I know you're not the craziest dude I've ever met? You'll have to test me out. You have my info, she says. I'll think about it. Rain, I say. That's not your real name. Does it matter? Well, it makes me wonder what else isn't real. That's because you're a writer, she says. That's because you make things up for a living. And? And-- she shrugs--I've noticed that writers tend to worry about things like that.

Did I ever tell you that I want to wear a big yellow smiley-face mask and then put on the CD version of Bobby McFerrin's 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' and then take a girl and a dog—a collie, a chow, a sharpei, it doesn't really matter—and then hook up this transfusion pump, this IV set, and switch their blood, you know, pump the dog's blood into the hardbody and vice versa, did I ever tell you this?

I think about other things while she describes her recent past: air, water, sky, time, a moment, a point somewhere when I wanted to show her everything beautiful in the world.

And as the elevator descends, passing the second floor, and the first floor, going even farther down, I realize that the money doesn't matter. That all that does is that I want to see the worst.

I'm thinking about the beautiful boy on the treadmill wearing the I STILL HAVE A DREAM T-shirt and realize that it might not have been ironic.

When you love a book it loves you back.

I am a ghost to this man, I'm thinking. I am something unreal, something not quite tangible, yet still an obstacle of sorts and he nods, gets back on the phone, resumes speaking in a dialect totally alien to me.

Sometimes when you're standing in a crowd I feel those sultry dark eyes of yours stop on me. Are you too afraid to come up to me and let me know how you feel I want to moan and writhe with you and I want to go up to you and kiss your mouth and pull you to me and say "I love you I love you I love you" while stripping. I want you so bad it stings.

There was something beneath the surface of things.