I Wasn't Acting On Passion. I Was

If I Want To Write A Movie, I'll Write A Screenplay, But If I Have An Idea For A Book, It's Something That I Think Can Only Be Done Novelistically.

...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.

Fear Never Shows Up And The Party Ends Early.

I Felt Lethal, On The Verge Of Frenzy. My Nightly Bloodlust Overflowed Into My Days And I Had To Leave The City. My Mask Of Sanity Was A Victim Of Impending Slippage. This Was The Bone Season For Me And I Needed A Vacation.

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.