I Don't Know Why I Write What

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.

I Had All The Characteristics Of A Human Being—flesh, Blood, Skin, Hair—but My Depersonalization Was So Intense, Had Gone So Deep, That My Normal Ability To Feel Compassion Had Been Eradicated, The Victim Of A Slow, Purposeful Erasure. I Was Simply Imitating Reality, A Rough Resemblance Of A Human Being, With Only A Dim Corner Of My Mind Functioning

...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's The Rare Book That's Able To Transport You In A Way That A Movie Does.

What Keeps Me Interested--and It Always Does--is How Can She Be A Bad Actress On Film But A Good One In Reality?