Bateman: 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.
***
Bateman: I have all the characteristics of a human being: flesh, blood, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust. Something horrible is happening inside of me and I don’t know why. My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.
***
McDermott: If they have a good personality and they’re not great looking… then who fucking cares?
Bateman: Well, let’s just say hypothetically, OK? What if they have a good personality? I know, I know. There are no girls with good personalities.
Van Patten: A good personality consists of a chick with a little hard body, who will satisfy all sexual demands without being too slutty about things, and who will essentially keep her dumb fucking mouth shut.
McDermott: The only girls with good personalities who are smart or maybe funny or halfway intelligent or talented, though god knows what the fuck that means, are ugly chicks.
Van Patten: Absolutely.
McDermott: And this is because they have to make up for how fucking unattractive they are.
Bateman: Do you know what Ed Gein said about women?
Van Patten: Ed Gein? Maitre d’ at Canal Bar?
Bateman: No, serial killer, Wisconsin, in the 50s.
McDermott: And what did Ed say?
Bateman: He said: “When I see a pretty girl walking down the street, I think two things. One part of me wants to take her out and talk to her, be real nice and sweet and treat her right.”
McDermott: And what did the other part of him think?
Bateman: What her head would look like on a stick.
***
Bateman: Howard! It’s Bateman, Patrick Bateman. You’re my lawyer so I think you should know I’ve killed a lot of people. Some escort girls in an apartment uptown… uh… some homeless people maybe five or ten. Uh… an NYU girl I met in Central Park, I left her at a parking lot behind some donut shop. I killed Bethany, my old girlfriend, with a nail gun and… some man, some old faggot with a dog. Last week I killed another girl… with a chainsaw… I had to. She almost got away. And… someone else there I can’t remember, maybe a model, but she’s dead, too. And, uh- PAUL ALLEN! I killed Paul Allen with an axe in the face! His body is dissolving in a bathtub in Hell’s Kitchen! I don’t want to leave anything out here — I guess I’ve killed maybe… 20 people… maybe 40! Uh, I have uh… tapes of a lot of it. Some of the girls have seen the tapes — I even, um… I ate some of their brains and I tried to cook a little. Tonight, I uh, just had to kill a lot of people! And I’m not sure I’m gonna get away with it… this time. So, uh… I mean… I guess I’m a pretty, sick guy. So, if you get back tomorrow, I may show up at Harry’s Bar. So, you know, keep your eyes open. Okay.
***
Bateman: 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. 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, there is no catharsis. My punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant… nothing.
American Psycho (2000)
wasted 