American Psycho turns 30: What would Patrick Bateman look like today?

Brett Easton Ellis' seminal novel turns 30-year-old this year. But what would the titular psychopath look like in a 21st century world?

American Psycho is a book that takes the question: “what if the eighties was, like, a real, living person?” and runs with it for 399 pages. (Brett Easton Ellis won’t like that description, but then I’m beginning increasingly to suspect that Brett Easton Ellis doesn’t really like anything).

It huffs up all the decade’s power restaurants and rolodexes and videotapes, and all its money and certainty and vanity and cocaine, and pumps them it into a horrible, handsome, pin-striped little shell named Patrick Bateman, until he swells at the abs and sweats like a crack baby. And Patrick may or may not like to mutilate and murder a little between the sauna and the ceviche, and he may or may not be real, and he may or may not be imagining everything, and the book may or may not be endorsing this lifestyle, and it may or may not be condemning it, and it may or may not be saying something much cleverer in between the two.

But listen — you’re just here for the scene with the business cards and all that lovely Oliver Peoples eyewear, aren’t you, so let’s not get bogged down in the details. (There are also some bits with rats and prostitutes and chainsaws, but again, don’t worry about it, honestly, it’s fine.)

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