First published: 1991
Page count: 416
The back says: Patrick Bateman is twenty-six and works on Wall Street; he is handsome, sophisticated, charming and intelligent. He is also a psychopath. Taking us to a head-on collision with America's greatest dream - and its worst nightmare - American Psycho is a bleak, bitter, black comedy about a world we all recognize but do not wish to confront.
I say: Such. Effing. Tedium.
I had to force myself to finish this. Why? Because I kept waiting for something magnificent.
It never came.
What I got was pages and pages of designer names, ridiculous conversations, and misogynistic violence and gore. The only shocking part of this novel was how utterly dull and pointless I found it. Psychopathic Wall Street guy kills and dismembers people in between talking trash with his equally shallow friends and obsessing over The Patty Winters Show and other random pop culture. Though I do realise that this is satire, a so called ‘black comedy’, which is saturated in inane violence for the sheer shock factor of it all, it merely left me deflated and counting the amount of pages left until I was done with it all.