5 stars. I don't know what possessed me to read this book on the eve of a stressful trip, to New York of all places, but let me just say: you haven't lived until you've read these pages on the train up and then reflected on them as you rode through the streets of the city on the way to your hotel. This is a very, very diverting, compelling, New York book that gets a lot of things (vibes, critiques, elements of satire) about the city correct, in my opinion. I think maybe that's one thing that makes reading this so uncomfortable, and confuses squeamish readers: Bret Easton Ellis gets a lot right. Of course he juxtaposes this with absolute sickening violence - stuff that couldn't possibly happen IRL, right? - so we deny that we recognize something in it. Something about identity; something about America; something true.
I keep thinking about how Patrick Bateman's only goal, really (like any other psychopath), is self-preservation and avoidance of consequences. He clearly feels some things... hate, anxiety, fear, nerves, arrogance, desire, appreciation, disgust, etc., but a lot of these feelings revolve around the risk of getting caught or "discovered," maybe. Identified. And as he puts it in one case, he tries to fit in. So Patrick Bateman reflects society - society's values, wants, needs, priorities, habits, superficialities. Very, very interesting. (Can we talk about how he idolizes Donald Trump to the point of it becoming a motif throughout the entire book? Very, very interesting.)
Another surprising thing: this book is fucking hilarious. It's dark humor at its absolute darkest, but I laughed out loud frequently all the way through (the description of Bono, though). Sometimes it's a perfectly dry piece of narration:
"On the way to Wall Street this morning, due to the gridlock I had to get out of the company car and was walking down Fifth Avenue to find a subway station when I passed what I thought was a Halloween parade, which was disorienting since I was fairly sure this was May."
Other times it's a little more blatant:
“But you always bring them up,” McDermott complains. “And always in this casual, educational sort of way. I mean, I don’t want to know anything about Son of Sam or the fucking Hillside Strangler or Ted Bundy or Featherhead, for god sake.”
“Featherhead?” Van Patten asks. “Who’s Featherhead? He sounds exceptionally dangerous.”
“He means Leatherface,” I say, teeth tightly clenched. “Leatherface. He was part of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
“Oh.” Van Patten smiles politely. “Of course.”
“And he was exceptionally dangerous,” I say.
And sometimes I found myself laughing despite the giant gutpunch:
"After the office I worked out at Xclusive and once home made obscene phone calls to young Dalton girls, the numbers I chose coming from the register I stole a copy of from the administration office when I broke in last Thursday night. “I’m a corporate raider,” I whispered lasciviously into the cordless phone. “I orchestrate hostile takeovers. What do you think of that?” and I would pause before making sucking noises, freakish piglike grunts, and then ask, “Huh, bitch?” Most of the time I could tell they were frightened and this pleased me greatly, enabled me to maintain a strong, pulsing erection for the duration of the phone calls, until one of the girls, Hilary Wallace, asked, unfazed, “Dad, is that you?” and whatever enthusiasm I’d built up plummeted."
I'd love someone to challenge me on this book. I've tried to do some research, since I missed the controversy when it was published, but I'm still trying to wrap my head around why it's so polarizing (in a world where so much violent content - in all shapes, sizes, formats and levels of extreme - openly exists and is rapidly consumed to the point of popularity... why this one?). For now, having read it with a close eye, it doesn't strike me as especially severe or shocking. Though the violence is absolutely insane and difficult to read at times, it feels intentional and deliberate and purposeful as it contributes to the central theme of the book - not cheap violence for violence's sake. But I'm open to a good argument; convince me! Tell me why I should hate it, or why I should hate myself for finding it a compelling, clever, worthy piece of literature. If BEE is a raging misogynist, as he has been accused (and as proven by his recent-ish cancelation), that's fine, but that's also just a ... different issue.
Anyway.
On his Wikipedia page BEE is quoted as saying "American Psycho doesn't really work as a movie." I think he might be right, at least when it comes to a direct adaptation. I was pretty delighted to find that while the movie version pulls from the source material and is completely aligned in concept/premise, it's also sort of its own thing. Very, very good, but very different in that format. Some of the key features of the book - the transcriptions of designer outfits, the ridiculous food, the references to Les Mis, the written peek into Bateman's internal self/consciousness, the fact that characters keep misremembering and misidentifying people they think they recognize, even some key events - are missing from the movie, which benefits it but also makes the book stand out even more. *Giant Shrug* I really like them both. Sorry Twitter, but that is allowed.
Final thought: American Pyscho is an incredible, classic, bleak piece of work that left me horrified and inspired at the same time. Read it or don't, I don't care. I need to go return some videotapes.
American Pyscho on: Amazon | Bookshop.org | Goodreads
