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If I am not good to myself, how can I expect anyone else to be good to me? Maya Angelou
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I have found that among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver. When we give cheerfully and accept gratefully, everyone is blessed. Life is pure adventure, and the sooner we realize that, the quicker we will be able to treat life as art. The latter reflects his own homosexuality, which he can repress, but not kill.This is what I am learning, at 82 years old: the main thing is to be in love with the search for truth. The narrator, used to killing men, women, children, pets, without blinking, is neutralized by a vulnerable prey like Luis. I take a deep breath, close my eye, count to ten, open them and make a helpless attempt to lift my arms back up to strangle Luis, but they feel weighed down and lifting them becomes an impossible task. I try to squeeze harder, my face twisted with exertion, but I can’t do it, my hands won’t tighten, and my arms, still stretched out, look ludicrous and useless in their fixed position. Instead, he looks down at my wrists and for a moment wavers, as if he’s undecided about something, and then he lowers his head and… kisses my left wrist, and when he looks back up at me, shyly, it’s with an expression that’s… loving and only part awkward. I start to squeeze, tightening my grip, but it’s loose enough to let Luis turn around – still in slow motion – so he can stand facing me and I tense the muscles in my arms, preparing myself for a struggle that, disappointingly, never comes. In slow motion, my hands move up over the collar of his cashmere blazer and cotton-flannel shirt, circling his neck until my thumbs meet at the nape and my index fingers touch each other just above Luis’s Adam’s apple. All the stalls are empty except for the one at the end, the door not locked, left slightly ajar, the sound of Luis whistling something from Les Misérables getting almost oppressively louder as I approach. He ends up facing a foe he can’t destroy that easily: In the chapter titled “Yale Club”, Bateman follows Luis Carruthers to the men’s room, with the intent to murder him.
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Watching upclose a barechested man covered in sweat results in an “aching erection”. I realize that I’m receiving a message of some kind from the singer the stadium’s deserted, the band fades away I hear it, can actually feel, can even make out the letters of the message hovering above Bono’s head in orange letters: “I… am… the devil… and I am… just like you…” And then everyone, the audience, the band, reappears and the music slowly swells up and Bono, sensing that I’ve received the message – I actually know that he feels me reacting to it – is satisfied and turns away and I’m left tingling, my face flushed, an aching erection pulsing against my thigh, my hands clenched in fists of tension. His body is white, covered with sweat, beneath a paltry amount of chest hair. Bono has now moved across the stage, following me to my seat, and he’s staring into my eyes, kneeling at the edge of the stage, wearing black jeans (maybe Gitano), sandals, a leather vest with no shirt beneath it. When I sit down, something strange on the stage catches my eye. Later, Bateman gets a boner from watching Bono upclose at a U2 concert: Meeting gay people makes Patrick want to kill his animal impulses. Watching a gay parade triggers such anxiety that to cope he must torture to death a small dog. I watched with a certain traumatized fascination but when I began to receive fey catcalls from aging, overmuscled beachboys with walruslike mustaches in between the lines “There’s a place for us, Somewhere a place for us,” I sprinted over to Sixth Avenue, decided to be late for the office and took a cab back to my apartment where I put on a new suit (by Cerruti 1881), gave myself a pedicure and tortured to death a small dog I had bought earlier this week in a pet store on Lexington. When I made a closer inspection it turned out to be something called a “Gay Pride Parade,” which made my stomach turn. On the way to Wall Street this morning I passed what I thought was a Halloween parade, which was disorienting since I was fairly sure this was May. On his way to his office, Bateman is traumatized by a gay parade: There are multiple passages in American Psycho that reflect Bateman’s repressed homosexuality.