Sounds like a rather abrupt, brutal end to someone who could apparently atone for his actions and love his family (and hell, has family who loves him to begin with), and I don’t believe he is explicitly given any redeeming qualities or sympathy in Lunar Park I’ll have to read it to find out, but from research alone, there is no mention of any character development or even family.Įven with that aside, Bateman learning to love anyone just like that sounds not only horribly cliché but also at odds with the point of his character as a shallow and hyperbolized caricature of yuppie culture dehumanized by his environment (and himself, really) yet desperately trying to be human I don’t think that’s how Ellis, who personally hates the character and doesn’t seem to have done anything with these emails beyond greenlighting them once (and it is apparently unclear as to which version of the character they’re written for, nor is there context as to why he greenlit them), would go about writing at all. Lunar Park-a 2005 metafictional novel by Bret Easton Ellis and the actual closest thing we have to an American Psycho sequel-to my knowledge portrays Bateman as the same vile villain in the original book (albeit primarily presented as hallucinations that haunt a fictionalized Ellis) who is still rumored to have recently committed a string of murders and with no mention of Jean or his “son” whatsoever, despite the fact that these would probably be quite pivotal to his character if those emails were canon to Ellis’s universe he is ultimately written off by said fictionalized Ellis to have died in a fire on a boat dock, alone, as a means of overcoming the character. The colors, defense, that sent men to the bottom, their hearts bursting with songs of color and charm.You seem a tad eager to propose a removal for Bateman. The colors that came from the air and the island and the world itself, which hushed and hurried across the world to here, to meet when they were needed, to stop the seamen who slid over the waves to the break in the breakwall. Oh, mostly the pleasures, one after another, singing, lulling, hypnotically arresting the eye as the ship sped into the heart of the maelstrom of weird, advancing, sky-eating colors. Colors like racing, and pungent, and far-seen shadows, and bitterness, and something that hurt, and something that pleasured. In a rising, keening spiral of hysteria they came, first pulsing in primaries, then secondaries, then comminglings and off shades, and finally in colors that had no names. “Softly at first, humming, creeping, boiling up from nowhere at the horizon line twisting and surging like snake whirlwinds with adolescent intent building, spiraling, climbing in vague streamers and tendrils of unconsciousness, the colors came. a soundless screaming a soundless whirring a soundless spinning spinning spinning. trapped and doomed alone in a mist-eaten nowhere. this is the stopover before hell or heaven. pinpoints cast in amber straining and elongating running like live wax. memory the gibbering spastic blind memory. a soundless owl of frenzy trapped in a cave of prisms. endless nights that pealed ebony funeral bells. a cornucopia that rose up cuculiform smooth and slick as a worm belly. down a bottomless funnel roundly sectioned like a goat' s horn. lights whirling and spinning in a cotton candy universe. At least the four of them are safe at last. ![]() Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of AM, whom we created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could do it better. Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as human, a thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance. Blotches of diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though light is being beamed from within. Rubbery appendages that were once my arms bulks rounding down into legless humps of soft slippery matter. Smoothly rounded, with no mouth, with pulsing white holes filled by fog where my eyes used to be.
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