I Have To Return Some Videotapes

Every Book For Me Is An Exorcism In Some Way Or Another, Working Through My Feelings At The Time.

I Feel Like I'm Not Smart Enough To Answer The Questions I'm Asked.

A Curtain Of Stars, Miles Of Them, Are Scattered, Glowing, Across The Sky And Their Multitude Humbles Me, Which I Have A Hard Time Tolerating. She Shrugs And Nods After I Say Something About Forms Of Anxiety. It's As If Her Mind Is Having A Hard Time Communicating With Her Mouth, As If She Is Searching For A Rational Analysis Of Who I Am, Which Is, Of Course, An Impossibility: There... Is... No... Key.

I'm Really Shocked When Critics Get Morally Outraged At My Fiction Because They Think I'm Condoning What's Going On. I Never Come In As The Author And Say, "hey, Okay. I'm Interrupting The Narrator Here. I'm Bret Easton Ellis, And I'm The Author."

What Do You Do?' She Asks, Holding Out The Vest. 'what Do You Do?' 'what Do You Do?' She Asks, Her Voice Shaking. 'don't Ask Me, Please. Okay, Clay?' 'why Not?' She Sits On The Mattress After I Get Up. Muriel Screams. 'because... I Don't Know,' She Sighs. I Look At Her And Don't Feel Anything And Walk Out With My Vest.