American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

American Psycho occupies a peculiar place on my bookshelf: It's the only book I've ever read that I liked but was not able to finish.

I'm really not a squeamish guy. I know squeamish people often say that and they're just full of shit, but really; I'm not. I've got a pretty strong stomach. I grew up in the early '90s playing violent video games and watching gory '80s action and horror films. So, really, gore and violence don't typically bother me. But American Psycho makes its film adaptation look like a Care Bears episode. It is, by a wide margin, the most violent piece of media I've ever experienced.

I really appreciate what Bret Easton Ellis is doing in American Psycho. I appreciate how satirical and hilarious and ridiculous it all is, and I looked up a synopsis after putting it down so I know the ending and I'm sure I'd appreciate its ambiguity if I were able to have made it there. But I just couldn't finish this. It's very good—brilliant, even—but the level of creative debauchery, murder, and rape was just too much for me. I got to the gerbil scene and I just couldn't take it anymore.

I don't blame the author for this. It's not you, Bret—it's me. So I'll leave this unrated and leave this review up here as a warning for folks. If you're squeamish, this is probably gonna be a tough one for ya.

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