Monday, March 17, 2008

best novel of the nineties?

> american psycho >

“Why do I sense hostility on your part, Patrick?” she asks softly, then sips her wine.
“Maybe because I'm hostile,” I spit out. “Maybe because you sense this.”


“Well, I'd like to travel,” she says. “And maybe go back to school, but I really don't know ....” She pauses thoughtfully and announces, sincerely, “I'm at a point in my life where there seems to be a lot of possibilities, but I'm so .... I don't know .... unsure.


Everything failed to subdue me. Soon everything seemed dull: another sunrise, the lives of heroes, falling in love, war, the discoveries people made about each other. The only thing that didn't bore me, obviously enough, was how much money Tim Price made, and yet in its obviousness it did. There wasn't a clear identifiable emotion within me, except for greed and, possibly, total disgust. I had all the characteristics of a human being – flesh, blood, skin, hair – but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that the 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. Something horrible was happening and I couldn't figure out why - I couldn't put my finger on it.


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