Bait-man
Patrick isn’t entirely apathetic. His meticulous and reverential approach to couture and design is worthy of the 7000-odd words that depict his psychosis in meticulous detail.
Anything you may have read thus far, about murder and its aftermath, will most certainly pale in comparison to the murderous monologue, admirably penned by Bret Easton Ellis.
In a world that’s bent on capitalizing on its potential to destruct anything worthy of preservation, American Psycho is a careful reconstruction of a degenerate, insensitive and unfeeling character – reflective of society at large. Only his dementia far exceeds any person’s expectations, yours included.
The complete lack of control in his (Patrick’s) endeavour to shock-&-awe will not be well received by those who haven’t the stomach or the creativity to imagine a mind calloused beyond redemption.
Although I haven’t seen its screen adaptation, Christian Bale seems like the perfect choice to play a character so twisted and depraved – Hannibal Lecter resembles a rookie at best.
Goreful profligacy and decadent debauchery served on a platter of homicide and murder so vile, it will compel you to visit recesses of your mind you didn’t think existed.
Shockingly disturbing and unspeakably disquieting, this book will singe your fingers and suppress the appetite for days on end.
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