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Why was I holding on to something that would never be mine? But isn't that what people do?

Bret Easton Ellis

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Bret Easton Ellis
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 7
Executive Producer
Journalist
Novelist
Podcaster
Screenwriter
Short Story Writer
Writer
LA
California
Bret-Easton Ellis
Bret Ellis
Mine
Something
Never
Would
People
Holding
Mines

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I think the '80s created me, in a way, when I look back on that time, but I don't necessarily think that a lot of my choices, and a lot of things that I did, and a lot of things that happened to me - or I let happen to me - were about that decade.
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There’s no use in denying it: this has been a bad week. I’ve started drinking my own urine.
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It's the rare book that's able to transport you in a way that a movie does.
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Disappear Here. The syringe fills with blood. You're a beautiful boy and that's all that matters. Wonder if he's for sale. People are afraid to merge. To merge.
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He was simply someone who floated through our lives and didn't seem to care how flatly he perceived everyone or that he'd shared our secret failures with the world, showcasing the youthful indifference, the gleaming nihilism, glamorizing the horror of it all.
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I don't want to care. If I care about things, it'll just be worse, it'll just be another thing to worry about. It's less painful if I don't care.
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Unless you're the director on the movie, or putting up the money for the movie, you really don't have a lot of control.
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I kept staring into the blackness of the woods, drawn into the darkness as I always had been. I suddenly realized how alone I was. (But this is how you travel, the wind whispered back, this is how you've always lived.)
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And as the elevator descents, passing the second floor, and the first floor, going even father down, I realize that the money doesn't matter. That all that does is that I want to see the worst
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There’s no grand plan. All I know is that I write the books I want to write. All that other stuff is meaningless to me.
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The snowy owl has eyes that look just like mine, especially when it widens them. And while I stand there, staring at it, lowering my sunglasses, something unspoken passes between me and the bird - there's this weird kind of tension, a bizarre pressure, that fuels the following, which starts, happens, ends, very quickly.
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The better you look, the more you see.
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But this road doesn't go anywhere,” I told him. “That doesn't matter.” “What does?” I asked, after a little while. “Just that we're on it, dude,” he said.
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And as things fell apart, nobody paid much attention
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I've forgotten who I had lunch with earlier, and even more important, where.
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I really believe that readers are smart and sophisticated enough to realize that the author is not the narrator of his novels.
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We buy balloons, we let them go.
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After a while you learn that everything stops.
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...there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.
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