“I was destined to be the greatest actor of all time. Monty Clift? If I had been in A Place in the Sun, George Stevens would have had me do the walk to the electric chair shirtless. I mailed away for one of those Charles Atlas exercise routines they advertise in the back of the Superman comics. And I practice acting faces in front of the mirror—sad, happy, moody. But mother wouldn’t let me. I hate her! But she can’t keep my greatness in the slips. One door closes, another opens. And this body is America, strong, violent and full of limitless potential. My arms will hold them down when they struggle. My legs will run them down when they flee. I will be the U.S. Steel of murder. My body holds a heart that cannot love. When Dora died, she looked right into my eyes, and I felt nothing. The clown was put on earth to show me the way. To introduce me to the sweet language of murder.
But I am no clown.
I am perfection.
I am greatness.
I am the future, and the future starts tonight.”
“…there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. 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? 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. 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….”
I have seen the face of God, and he is looking at me from the mirror.