Olivia: There's a book so controversial it was dropped by its first publisher and earned the author death threats before it even hit shelves. But its most terrifying, most psychologically stressful scene has nothing to do with an axe. It’s about business cards. Jackson: Wow. Okay, that’s a hook. You have to be talking about American Psycho. I think most people know the iconic movie with Christian Bale, but I’ve heard the story behind the book is even wilder. Olivia: It absolutely is. Today we are diving deep into Bret Easton Ellis's 1991 novel, American Psycho. And you're right, Jackson, its journey was legendary. Ellis was part of this group of young, edgy writers in the 80s dubbed the 'literary Brat Pack,' and this book made him infamous. Jackson: Infamous is the word. The public outcry over the violence, especially against women, was so intense that the original publisher, Simon & Schuster, backed out at the last minute. It was seen as literary poison. Olivia: And yet, it was eventually published by another house and went on to become this massive, polarizing cult classic. It’s a book that people either throw across the room in disgust or hail as a satirical masterpiece. There’s very little in-between. Jackson: That’s fascinating. So where do you even begin to unpack a book like that? You mentioned business cards. I feel like we have to start there.

Olivia: We absolutely do, because it’s the perfect key to unlocking the entire novel. The scene takes place in a sterile, high-end office. Patrick Bateman and his fellow Wall Street investment bankers—who are all basically interchangeable in their expensive suits—are sitting around a table. Jackson: I'm picturing it. A lot of slicked-back hair and power ties. Olivia: Exactly. And one of them, David Van Patten, whips out his new business card. Bateman’s internal monologue immediately kicks in. He describes it with the obsessive detail of a forensic scientist. He notes the font, the texture, the specific shade of white. He feels a pang of anxiety, but he’s confident his own new card is better. Jackson: Oh boy, here we go. It’s a duel. Olivia: It’s a duel. Bateman presents his card. He’s proud. It’s "bone" colored. The font is something called "Silian Rail." He’s feeling good. Then, another colleague, Timothy Price, shows his. It’s also very tasteful. The tension is rising. But then… the final boss enters the game. A guy named Paul Allen. Jackson: And what’s so special about Paul Allen’s card? Olivia: It’s the details that drive Bateman insane. The lettering is "raised." The color is a subtle "off-white." The paper stock is just… thicker. Bateman is looking at it, and his internal monologue is just a scream of pure panic. He says, "I can't believe that Bryce prefers Van Patten's card to mine." But when he sees Allen's card, he starts sweating. His stomach clenches. He feels dizzy, nauseous. Jackson: Hold on. He's having a full-blown, physical panic attack over the thickness and font on a piece of paper? That is both hilarious and deeply, deeply unsettling. Olivia: That’s the genius of the satire! In the world Ellis creates, there is no inner self. There is no substance. Your identity is a collection of surfaces, of brands, of status symbols. The business card isn't a representation of the man; the card is the man. And Paul Allen’s card is better. Therefore, Paul Allen is better. It’s an existential defeat. Jackson: So it’s not just about being a materialistic jerk. It’s that the materialism has completely replaced their humanity. Olivia: Precisely. The whole book is filled with these moments. There are endless, chapter-long descriptions of Bateman’s morning routine—the thousand-dollar facial scrubs, the exfoliants, the masks. There are obsessive reviews of Whitney Houston and Genesis albums, where he analyzes their music with the detached language of a corporate report. He’s trying to construct a personality out of consumer products. Jackson: It’s like he’s trying to buy a soul on Madison Avenue. I can see how that connects to the dinner party scene you mentioned from the book's summary. Olivia: Yes, the dinner at Evelyn's apartment is another perfect example. The conversation is a series of competitive complaints and status assertions. They argue about which restaurant is harder to get a reservation at. They debate the quality of the sushi. Bateman is internally obsessing over the sodium content of the soy sauce. There is zero genuine human connection. It's all a performance. Jackson: That feels uncomfortably familiar. Is this just an 80s thing, a critique of the 'yuppie' era, or is Ellis pointing to something more timeless? Because that sounds a lot like scrolling through Instagram today. Olivia: I think that’s why the book remains so potent. The brand names have changed, but the underlying anxiety is arguably worse. The pressure to curate a perfect life, the personal branding, the reduction of self to a series of aesthetically pleasing images—it’s the business card scene on a global, digital scale. The technology is different, but the tyranny of the surface is the same.

Jackson: Okay, so if these characters are completely hollow, just a collection of brand names and anxieties… what’s actually inside? What fills that void? Olivia: And that's the perfect pivot. Because the book's terrifying answer is: nothing. And when there is a profound, aching void, something has to rush in to fill it. For Patrick Bateman, that something is rage and extreme, graphic violence. Jackson: This is where the book gets its notorious reputation. Olivia: This is it. The violence is the only thing that makes him feel real. He says at one point that his life has no real meaning, that he is "simply not there." The murders, in his mind, are the only acts that have any substance. They are his twisted form of self-expression in a world that has denied him any real self. Jackson: But one of the big debates about the book, and the film, is whether the violence is even real. Is he actually a serial killer, or is it all a dark, elaborate fantasy? Olivia: The book is masterful in its ambiguity. It's written in a stream-of-consciousness, "unreliable narrator" style. There are moments that feel completely hallucinatory. He sees a Cheerio on a talk show talking to him. He thinks an ATM is telling him to feed it a stray cat. The lines between reality and psychosis are completely blurred. Jackson: So we’re never meant to know for sure? Olivia: I don't think so. And that’s the point. Ellis includes a quote at the beginning, a reflection on how individuals like Bateman not only can exist in our society, but must exist, given the circumstances. He’s a symptom of the disease, not the disease itself. Whether he’s actually killing people or just fantasizing about it, the underlying psychopathy is a direct product of the dehumanizing culture he lives in. Jackson: That brings us to the biggest controversy. The violence, especially against women, is incredibly detailed and brutal. Many critics at the time called it gratuitously violent and deeply misogynistic. How do we read that today? Olivia: It's a crucial and difficult question. And the criticism isn't wrong; the scenes are designed to be repulsive. But the argument in the book's defense is that the violence isn't there for titillation. It's there as the logical endpoint of the consumerist mindset. Jackson: What do you mean by that? Olivia: Bateman treats everything and everyone as a product to be consumed. He critiques his victims' bodies with the same detached, critical language he uses for a stereo system or a business suit. The misogyny isn't just a character flaw; it's a reflection of a culture that commodifies women, that reduces them to a collection of parts. The violence is the ultimate act of consumption and disposal. It's meant to horrify us by showing us the ugliest, most extreme manifestation of the world he inhabits.

Jackson: Wow. So when you put it all together, the book isn't really a traditional serial killer story at all. The horror isn't just that a psychopath is on the loose. The real horror is that his psychopathy is almost indistinguishable from the accepted rituals of his world. His obsession with status and appearance is just a slightly more intense version of his colleagues' obsession. Olivia: Exactly. The most chilling part is that in this world of absolute surface, a monster can walk among them, and not only does no one notice, but they can't even tell each other apart. The book is famous for its running gag of mistaken identity. Characters are constantly calling each other by the wrong names. Jackson: Right, because they're all wearing the same suits, going to the same restaurants, saying the same things. They're interchangeable. Olivia: And that leads to the final, devastating conclusion of the novel. After all the horror, real or imagined, Bateman calls his lawyer and leaves a long, detailed, frantic confession on his answering machine. He confesses to everything. Jackson: And what happens? Olivia: He runs into the lawyer a few days later, and the lawyer treats the message as a hilarious joke. He tells Bateman he can't be a murderer because he just had dinner with one of the supposed victims, Paul Allen, in London. But more importantly, the lawyer laughs and says, "But that's not possible. And I don't find this funny anymore. Bateman is such a dork, such a boring, spineless lightweight." He has mistaken Bateman for someone else. Jackson: Oh, that’s brutal. So even his confession, his one attempt to be seen for what he truly is, is erased by the superficiality of it all. Olivia: It's erased. The ultimate horror of American Psycho is not that Patrick Bateman is a killer. It's that in the end, it doesn't matter if he is or not. His actions, his identity, his very existence—real or imagined—have no impact. He is completely, utterly invisible. Jackson: That's a powerful and disturbing thought to end on. It really makes you think about what we value. Olivia: It does. And it leaves us with a question that feels even more urgent today than it did in 1991. In a world increasingly obsessed with image and performance, what parts of our own humanity are we rendering invisible? Jackson: A heavy question, and a perfect place to leave it. We'd love to hear what you think. Is the critique in American Psycho more or less relevant in the age of social media? Find us and let us know. Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.