...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. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this - and I have, countless times, in just about every act I've committed - and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing ....
I'm asking Jean, "How many people in this world are like me?"
She pauses, carefully answers, "I don't... think anyone?" She's guessing.
"Let me rephrase the ques - Wait, how does my hair look?" I ask, interrupting myself.
"Okay. Let me rephrase the question." I take a sip of her dry beer. "Okay. Why do you like me?" I ask.
She asks back, "Why?"
"Yes," I say, "Why."
"Well..." A drop of beer has fallen onto my Polo shirt. She hands me her napkin. A practical gesture that touches me. "You're... concerned with others," she says tentatively. "That's a very rare thing in what" - she stops again - "is a... I guess, a hedonistic world. This is... Patrick, you're embarrassing me." She shakes her head, closing her eyes.
"Go on," I urge. "Please. I want to know."
"You're sweet." She rolls her eyes up. "Sweetness is... sexy... I don't know. But so is... mystery." Silence. "And I think... mystery... you're mysterious." Silence, followed by a sigh. "And you're... considerate." She realizes something, no longer scared, stares at me straight on. "And I think shy men are romantic."