I have no interest in finishing
American Psycho. 237 pages in and that’s enough for me. Before you dismiss this entry as yet another morally-outraged condemnation of Bret Easton Ellis and/or his controversial novel, allow me to declare that I don’t feel either is a blight on humanity. In fact, what I did get through was (morbidly) revealing about aspects of
my nature. It was an important read.
What do I mean by this? More so than any other text, in any medium, it has exposed that there is an
extent to my tolerance of ‘violence’ as a narrative feature. To be honest it is the
only text to have done so. Previously I have been rather liberal with my feelings on violent subject matter proliferating in fiction, written or otherwise. I felt strongly, and still do, that it can be implemented as a strong storytelling technique;
American Psycho is actually a perfect example of this. I just derived my version of its meaning early. I have read some harrowing and nauseating tales over time - Cormac McCarthy’s
The Road and Christos Tsiolkas’
Dead Europe spring to mind - and came away impressed and willing to re-read them. So why am I shying away here?
Bret Easton Ellis’ work unveils that ‘violence’ itself isn’t the issue so much as the way it is presented. And, I would argue, this ‘issue’ is not to be confused as a flaw in his writing; I daresay it could be an intended point. Foremost the novel kick-starts as a kind of black comedy, underpinned by comments alluding to (protagonist? antagonist?) Patrick Bateman’s depraved activities in complete contradiction to the chapter’s tone. It’s not long, however, before that tone is destroyed by the first-hand knowledge that those comments are very true and are very
not funny. Even as black humour. It’s an amazing comparison to make; an offhand sentence referring to committed violence versus the often lengthy and detailed paragraphs describing slabs of heinous conduct. It’s a note on desensitisation. The short, generalised sentences soften the force of what it is referencing; once we get to the real deal in-person it’s a startling, horrifying experience.
The message: distancing sugar-coats violence.
Whilst other works do have shocking situations of graphic violence, nothing I’ve experienced has done so with the same frequency and
detail as
American Psycho. Two-thirds into the book and I still know of plenty more scenarios to come; including an infamous rape/torture/murder chapter that apparently spans around ten pages. What that last point shows is that Ellis doesn’t refrain from long descriptive accounts of these episodes, which is intensified by a lacking consideration for metaphoric writing. Literary ‘skill’ isn’t invited to undermine the brunt force of Ellis’ simplistic, sprawling accounts. Here’s a quotation elucidating this view although I’d warn against reading it if you are put off but what’s said above:
“I take advantage of her helpless state and, removing my gloves, force her mouth open and with scissors cut out her tongue, which I pull easily from her mouth and hold in the palm of my hand, warm and still bleeding, seeming so much smaller than in her mouth, and throw it against the wall, where it sticks for a moment, leaving a stain, before falling to the floor with a tiny wet slap.” (Ellis 1991: 236)
It’s blunt, unrestrained prose. A style that is compounded by the insistence on first-person; the reader morphs into Patrick and is sucked into his execution of atrocities. There’s no deployment of metaphors or similes; it’s an ongoing account using common words repeatedly, describing it as it is. Violence doesn’t need literary symbolism to be an effective, evocative act.
There are other sides to
American Psycho, particularly relating to a critique on consumerism. Ellis’ manner in approaching this – excessive research into fashion brands and styles, electronic specifications, types of meals – is remarkable and has the effect of connoting futility (in relation to the character’s astute knowledge of these things). I could not tell you the difference between Ralph Lauren and Giorgio Armani fashion which consequently amalgamates all these into the one generalised ‘suit’; perhaps Ellis is suggesting through the average reader that differences between these styles are minute or unimportant? A suit is a suit after all. Or maybe I’m just too lazy to find out? The persistent misrecognition of these Wall Street types (regarding each other) is also amusing in its promotion of superficiality. That said, both the stubborn accounting for various products and continued misrecognition does get tired, but having started how could Ellis justify stopping? It’s unavoidable, I’d say.
“...The novelist’s function is to keep a running tag on the progress of the culture; and he’s [Ellis] done it brilliantly...” Fay Weldon, Washington Post
Agreed ... despite the protestation of my stomach that I ultimately gave in to. Bret Easton Ellis’
American Psycho is the only novel I’ve ever encountered that has to be sold in plastic wrapping and with the R18+ classification sticker adorning it (in Australia). Can’t say I disagree. A book to respect but, not completely at least, enjoy.
