Lunar Park.

Bret Easton Ellis.

The occupational hazard of making a spectacle of yourself, over the long haul, is that at some point you buy a ticket too.-THOMAS MCGUANE, Panama PanamaPeople who have made up their minds about a man do not like to have their opinions changed, to reverse their judgments on account of some new evidence or new arguments, and the man who tries to compel them to change their minds is at least wasting his time, and he may be asking for trouble.-JOHN O'HARAFrom the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past That youth and observation copied there.-Hamlet, I: v. 98 I: v. 98

1. the beginnings

"You do an awfully good impression of yourself."

This is the first line of Lunar Park Lunar Park and in its brevity and simplicity it was supposed to be a return to form, an echo, of the opening line from my debut novel, and in its brevity and simplicity it was supposed to be a return to form, an echo, of the opening line from my debut novel, Less Than Zero. Less Than Zero.

"People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles."

Since then the opening sentences of my novels-no matter how artfully composed-had become overly complicated and ornate, loaded down with a heavy, useless emphasis on minutiae.

My second novel, The Rules of Attraction, The Rules of Attraction, for example, began with this: for example, began with this: and it's a story that might bore you but you don't have to listen, she told me, because she always knew it was going to be like that, and it was, she thinks, her first year, or actually weekend, really a Friday, in September, at Camden, and this was three or four years ago, and she got so drunk that she ended up in bed, lost her virginity (late, she was eighteen) in Lorna Slavin's room, because she was a Freshman and had a roommate and Lorna was, she remembers, a Senior or Junior and usually sometimes at her boyfriend's place off-campus, to who she thought was a Soph.o.m.ore Ceramics major but who was actually either some guy from N.Y.U., a film student, and up in New Hampshire just for The Dressed To Get Screwed party, or a townie.

The following is from my third novel, American Psycho. American Psycho.

ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE is scrawled in blood red lettering on the side of the Chemical Bank near the corner of Eleventh and First and is in print large enough to be seen from the backseat of the cab as it lurches forward in the traffic leaving Wall Street and just as Timothy Price notices the words a bus pulls up, the advertis.e.m.e.nt for Les Miserables Les Miserables on its side blocking his view, but Price who is with Pierce & Pierce and twenty-six doesn't seem to care because he tells the driver he will give him five dollars to turn up the radio, "Be My Baby" on WYNN, and the driver, black, not American, does so. on its side blocking his view, but Price who is with Pierce & Pierce and twenty-six doesn't seem to care because he tells the driver he will give him five dollars to turn up the radio, "Be My Baby" on WYNN, and the driver, black, not American, does so.

This, from my fourth novel, Glamorama Glamorama: Specks-specks all over the third panel, see?-no, that that one-the second one up from the floor and I wanted to point this out to someone yesterday but a photo shoot intervened and Yaki Nakamari or whatever the h.e.l.l the designer's name is-a master craftsman one-the second one up from the floor and I wanted to point this out to someone yesterday but a photo shoot intervened and Yaki Nakamari or whatever the h.e.l.l the designer's name is-a master craftsman not not-mistook me for someone else so I couldn't register the complaint, but, gentlemen-and ladies-there they are: specks, specks, annoying, tiny specks, and they annoying, tiny specks, and they don't don't look accidental but like they were somehow done by a machine-so I don't want a lot of description, just the story, streamlined, no frills, the lowdown: who, what, where, when and don't leave out why, though I'm getting the distinct impression by the looks on your sorry faces that look accidental but like they were somehow done by a machine-so I don't want a lot of description, just the story, streamlined, no frills, the lowdown: who, what, where, when and don't leave out why, though I'm getting the distinct impression by the looks on your sorry faces that why why won't get answered-now, come on, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, what's the won't get answered-now, come on, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, what's the story story?

(The Informers was a short story collection published between was a short story collection published between American Psycho American Psycho and and Glamorama Glamorama and since much of it was written while I was still in college-before the publication of and since much of it was written while I was still in college-before the publication of Less Than Zero Less Than Zero-it was an example of the same stripped-down minimalism.) As anyone who had closely followed the progression of my career could glimpse-and if fiction inadvertently reveals a writer's inner life-things were getting out of hand, resembling something that according to the New York Times New York Times had become "bizarrely complicated . . . bloated and trivial . . . hyped-up," and I didn't necessarily disagree. I wanted a return to that past simplicity. I was overwhelmed by my life, and those first sentences seemed reflections of what had gone wrong. It was time to get back to basics, and though I hoped that one lean sentence-"You do an awfully good impression of yourself"-would start the process, I also realized that it was going to require more than a string of words to clear away the clutter and damage that had ama.s.sed around me. But it would be the beginning. had become "bizarrely complicated . . . bloated and trivial . . . hyped-up," and I didn't necessarily disagree. I wanted a return to that past simplicity. I was overwhelmed by my life, and those first sentences seemed reflections of what had gone wrong. It was time to get back to basics, and though I hoped that one lean sentence-"You do an awfully good impression of yourself"-would start the process, I also realized that it was going to require more than a string of words to clear away the clutter and damage that had ama.s.sed around me. But it would be the beginning.

When I was a student at Camden College in New Hampshire I took a novel-writing tutorial and produced during the winter of 1983 a ma.n.u.script that eventually became Less Than Zero. Less Than Zero. It detailed a wealthy, alienated, s.e.xually ambiguous young man's Christmas break from an eastern college in Los Angeles-more specifically Beverly Hills-and all the parties he wandered through and all the drugs he consumed and all the girls and boys he had s.e.x with and all the friends he pa.s.sively watched drift into addiction, prost.i.tution and vast apathy; days were spent speeding toward the beach club with beautiful blondes in gleaming convertibles while high on Nembutal; nights were lost in VIP rooms at trendy clubs and snorting cocaine at the window tables of Spago. It was an indictment not only of a way of life I was familiar with but also-I thought rather grandly-of the Reagan eighties and, more indirectly, of Western civilization in the present moment. My teacher was convinced as well, and after some casual edits and revisions (I had written it quickly in an eight-week crystal-meth binge on the floor of my bedroom in L.A.) he submitted it to his agent and publisher, who both agreed to take it on (the publisher somewhat reluctantly-one member of the editorial board arguing, "If there's an audience for a novel about c.o.ke-snorting, c.o.c.k-sucking zombies, then by all means let's publish the d.a.m.n thing"), and I watched with a mixture of fear and fascination-laced with excitement-its transformation from a student a.s.signment into a glossy hardcover that became a huge best seller and zeitgeist touchstone, was translated into twenty-five languages and made into a big-budget Hollywood movie, all within the s.p.a.ce of about sixteen months. And in the early fall of 1985, just four months after publication, three things happened simultaneously: I became independently wealthy, I became insanely famous, and, most important, I escaped my father. It detailed a wealthy, alienated, s.e.xually ambiguous young man's Christmas break from an eastern college in Los Angeles-more specifically Beverly Hills-and all the parties he wandered through and all the drugs he consumed and all the girls and boys he had s.e.x with and all the friends he pa.s.sively watched drift into addiction, prost.i.tution and vast apathy; days were spent speeding toward the beach club with beautiful blondes in gleaming convertibles while high on Nembutal; nights were lost in VIP rooms at trendy clubs and snorting cocaine at the window tables of Spago. It was an indictment not only of a way of life I was familiar with but also-I thought rather grandly-of the Reagan eighties and, more indirectly, of Western civilization in the present moment. My teacher was convinced as well, and after some casual edits and revisions (I had written it quickly in an eight-week crystal-meth binge on the floor of my bedroom in L.A.) he submitted it to his agent and publisher, who both agreed to take it on (the publisher somewhat reluctantly-one member of the editorial board arguing, "If there's an audience for a novel about c.o.ke-snorting, c.o.c.k-sucking zombies, then by all means let's publish the d.a.m.n thing"), and I watched with a mixture of fear and fascination-laced with excitement-its transformation from a student a.s.signment into a glossy hardcover that became a huge best seller and zeitgeist touchstone, was translated into twenty-five languages and made into a big-budget Hollywood movie, all within the s.p.a.ce of about sixteen months. And in the early fall of 1985, just four months after publication, three things happened simultaneously: I became independently wealthy, I became insanely famous, and, most important, I escaped my father.

My father made the bulk of his money from highly speculative real estate deals, most of them during the Reagan years, and the freedom this money bought made him increasingly unstable. But my father had always been a problem-careless, abusive, alcoholic, vain, angry, paranoid-and even after my parents divorced when I was a teenager (my mother's demand) his power and control continued to loom over the family (which also included two younger sisters) in ways that were all monetary (endless arguments between lawyers about alimony and child support). It was a mission of his, a crusade, to weaken us, to make us intensely aware of how we-not his behavior-were to blame for the fact that he was no longer wanted in our lives. He left the house in Sherman Oaks under protest and moved to Newport Beach and his rage continued to clash with our peaceful Southern California surroundings: the lazy days hanging by the pool beneath a relentlessly clear and sunny sky, the mindless wanderings through the Galleria, the endless driving with swaying palm trees guiding us toward our destinations, the easygoing conversations over a soundtrack of Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles-all the laid-back advantages of growing up in that time and place were considerably darkened by his invisible presence. This languid lifestyle, decadent and loose, never relaxed my father. He remained, always, locked in a kind of demented fury, no matter how mellow the surface circ.u.mstances of his life really were. And because of this the world was threatening to us in a vague and abstract way we couldn't work ourselves out of-the map had disappeared, the compa.s.s had been smashed, we were lost. My sisters and I discovered a dark side to life at an unusually early age. We learned from our father's behavior that the world lacked coherence, and that within this chaos people were doomed to failure, and these realizations clouded our every ambition. And so my father was the sole reason I fled to a college in New Hampshire rather than stay in L.A. with my girlfriend and enroll at USC like most of my cla.s.smates from the private school we attended in the San Fernando Valley suburbs ultimately did. That was my desperate plan. But it was too late. My father had blackened my perception of the world, and his sneering, sarcastic att.i.tude toward everything had latched on to me. As much as I wanted to escape his influence, I couldn't. It had soaked into me, shaped me into the man I was becoming. Whatever optimism I might have held on to had been swept away by the very nature of his being. The uselessness in thinking that escaping him physically would make a difference was so pathetic that I spent that first year at Camden paralyzed by anxiety and depression. The thing I resented most about my father was that the pain he inflicted on me-verbal and physical-was the reason I became a writer. (Added fact: he also beat our dog.) Since he had no faith in my talent as a writer my father demanded that I attend business school at USC (my grades were poor but he had connections), even though I wanted to enroll somewhere as geographically distant from him as possible-an art school, I kept stressing over his roar, that offered no business courses. I found none in Maine so I chose Camden, a small liberal arts college nestled in the bucolic hills of northeastern New Hampshire. My father, typically enraged, refused to pay the tuition. However, my grandfather-who at the time was being sued by his son over a money matter so circuitous and complicated that I'm still not sure how or why it began-footed the bill. I'm fairly certain the reason my grandfather paid the outrageously expensive tuition had to do with the fact that it would upset my father greatly, which it did. When I started attending Camden in the fall of 1982, my father and I stopped speaking, which for me was a relief. This mutual silence prevailed until Less Than Zero Less Than Zero was published and became a success. His negative, disapproving att.i.tude about me then metamorphosed, by the popularity of the novel, into a curiously glowing acceptance that intensified my loathing for him even more. My father created me, criticized me, destroyed me and, then, after I reinvented myself and lurched back into being, became a proud, boastful dad who attempted to reenter my life, all within what seemed to me a matter of days. Again I felt defeated, even though I had gained control through my newfound independence. Not accepting phone calls or requests to visit-refusing any and all contact with him-gave me no pleasure; it didn't vindicate anything. I had won the lottery yet still felt poor and needy. So I threw myself into the new life that was now offered, even though-being a savvy, jaded L.A. kid-I should have known better. was published and became a success. His negative, disapproving att.i.tude about me then metamorphosed, by the popularity of the novel, into a curiously glowing acceptance that intensified my loathing for him even more. My father created me, criticized me, destroyed me and, then, after I reinvented myself and lurched back into being, became a proud, boastful dad who attempted to reenter my life, all within what seemed to me a matter of days. Again I felt defeated, even though I had gained control through my newfound independence. Not accepting phone calls or requests to visit-refusing any and all contact with him-gave me no pleasure; it didn't vindicate anything. I had won the lottery yet still felt poor and needy. So I threw myself into the new life that was now offered, even though-being a savvy, jaded L.A. kid-I should have known better.

The novel was mistaken for autobiography (I had written three autobiographical novels-all unpublished-before Less Than Zero, Less Than Zero, so it was much more fiction-based and less a roman a clef than most first novels) and its sensational scenes (the snuff film, the gang rape of the twelve-year-old, the decomposing corpse in the alley, the murder at the drive-in) were taken from lurid rumors that whispered through the group I hung with in L.A. and not from anything experienced directly. But the press became extremely preoccupied with the book's "shocking" content and especially with its style: very brief scenes written in a kind of controlled, cinematic haiku. The book was short and an easy read (you could consume this "piece of black candy"- so it was much more fiction-based and less a roman a clef than most first novels) and its sensational scenes (the snuff film, the gang rape of the twelve-year-old, the decomposing corpse in the alley, the murder at the drive-in) were taken from lurid rumors that whispered through the group I hung with in L.A. and not from anything experienced directly. But the press became extremely preoccupied with the book's "shocking" content and especially with its style: very brief scenes written in a kind of controlled, cinematic haiku. The book was short and an easy read (you could consume this "piece of black candy"-New York Magazine-in a couple of hours) and because of its large type (and no chapter lasting more than a page or two) it became known as "the novel for the MTV generation" (courtesy of USA Today USA Today) and I found myself being labeled by just about everyone as the voice of this new generation. The fact that I was only twenty-one and there were no other voices yet seemed not to matter. I was a s.e.xy story and no one was interested in pointing out the paucity of other leaders. Besides being profiled in every magazine and newspaper that existed, I was interviewed on the Today Today show (for a record twelve minutes), on show (for a record twelve minutes), on Good Morning America, Good Morning America, by Barbara Walters, by Oprah Winfrey; I appeared on Letterman. William F. Buckley and I had a very lively conversation on by Barbara Walters, by Oprah Winfrey; I appeared on Letterman. William F. Buckley and I had a very lively conversation on Firing Line. Firing Line. For an entire week I introduced videos on MTV. Back at Camden I was engaged (briefly) to four different girls who hadn't seemed particularly interested before the book was published. At the graduation party my father threw for me at The Carlyle the attendees included Madonna, Andy Warhol with Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat, Molly Ringwald, John McEnroe, Ronald Reagan Jr., John-John Kennedy, the entire cast of For an entire week I introduced videos on MTV. Back at Camden I was engaged (briefly) to four different girls who hadn't seemed particularly interested before the book was published. At the graduation party my father threw for me at The Carlyle the attendees included Madonna, Andy Warhol with Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat, Molly Ringwald, John McEnroe, Ronald Reagan Jr., John-John Kennedy, the entire cast of St. Elmo's Fire, St. Elmo's Fire, various VJs and members of my ma.s.sive fan club, which five Va.s.sar seniors had started, with a film crew from various VJs and members of my ma.s.sive fan club, which five Va.s.sar seniors had started, with a film crew from 20/20 20/20 covering the event. Also attending was Jay McInerney, who had recently published a similar first novel, covering the event. Also attending was Jay McInerney, who had recently published a similar first novel, Bright Lights, Big City, Bright Lights, Big City, about young people and drugs in New York, that made him an overnight sensation and my closest East Coast rival; one critic pointed out in one of the many articles comparing the two novels that if you subst.i.tuted the word "chocolate" for "cocaine" both about young people and drugs in New York, that made him an overnight sensation and my closest East Coast rival; one critic pointed out in one of the many articles comparing the two novels that if you subst.i.tuted the word "chocolate" for "cocaine" both Less Than Zero Less Than Zero and and Bright Lights, Big City Bright Lights, Big City would be considered children's books, and because we were photographed together so often people began to mix the two of us up-to simplify things the New York press simply referred to us as the Toxic Twins. After graduating from Camden I moved to New York and bought a condo in the same building both Cher and Tom Cruise lived in, a block from Union Square Park. And as the real world continued to melt away I became a founding member of something called the literary Brat Pack. would be considered children's books, and because we were photographed together so often people began to mix the two of us up-to simplify things the New York press simply referred to us as the Toxic Twins. After graduating from Camden I moved to New York and bought a condo in the same building both Cher and Tom Cruise lived in, a block from Union Square Park. And as the real world continued to melt away I became a founding member of something called the literary Brat Pack.

The Brat Pack was essentially a media-made package: all fake flash and punk and menace. It consisted of a small, trendy group of successful writers and editors, all under thirty, who simply hung out together at night, either at Nell's or Tunnel or MK or Au Bar, and the New York as well as the national and international press became entranced. (Why? Well, according to Le Monde, Le Monde, "American fiction had never been this young and s.e.xy.") An updating of the movie-star Rat Pack from the late 1950s, it consisted of me (Frank Sinatra), the editor who discovered me (Morgan Entrekin in the Dean Martin role), the editor who discovered Jay (Gary Fisketjon/Peter Lawford), hepcat Random House editor Erroll McDonald (Sammy Davis Jr.) and McInerney (the group's Jerry Lewis). We even had our own Shirley MacLaine in the guise of Tama Janowitz, who had written a collection of short stories about cute, drug-addled hipsters trapped in Manhattan that stayed on the "American fiction had never been this young and s.e.xy.") An updating of the movie-star Rat Pack from the late 1950s, it consisted of me (Frank Sinatra), the editor who discovered me (Morgan Entrekin in the Dean Martin role), the editor who discovered Jay (Gary Fisketjon/Peter Lawford), hepcat Random House editor Erroll McDonald (Sammy Davis Jr.) and McInerney (the group's Jerry Lewis). We even had our own Shirley MacLaine in the guise of Tama Janowitz, who had written a collection of short stories about cute, drug-addled hipsters trapped in Manhattan that stayed on the New York Times New York Times best seller list for what seemed like months. And we were in hyperdrive. Every door swung wide open. Everyone approached us with outstretched hands and flashing smiles. We did layouts in fashion magazines, the six of us lounging on couches in hip restaurants, wearing Armani suits and in suggestive poses. Rock stars who were admirers invited us backstage: Bono, Michael Stipe, Def Leppard, members of the E Street Band. It was always the A booth. It was always the front seat of the roller coaster. It was never "Let's best seller list for what seemed like months. And we were in hyperdrive. Every door swung wide open. Everyone approached us with outstretched hands and flashing smiles. We did layouts in fashion magazines, the six of us lounging on couches in hip restaurants, wearing Armani suits and in suggestive poses. Rock stars who were admirers invited us backstage: Bono, Michael Stipe, Def Leppard, members of the E Street Band. It was always the A booth. It was always the front seat of the roller coaster. It was never "Let's not not get the bottle of Cristal." It was never "Let's get the bottle of Cristal." It was never "Let's not not have dinner at Le Bernardin," where our antics included food fights, hurling lobsters and hosing one another down with bottles of Dom Perignon until the unamused staff would ask us to vacate the premises. Since our editors were taking us out all the time on their limitless expense accounts, the publishing houses were actually paying for this debauchery. It was the beginning of a time when it was almost as if the novel itself didn't matter anymore-publishing a shiny booklike object was simply an excuse for parties and glamour and good-looking authors reading finely honed minimalism to students who would listen rapt with slack-jawed admiration, thinking, I could do that, I could be them. But of course if you weren't photogenic enough, the sad truth was you couldn't. And if you were not a supporter of the Brat Pack, you simply had to accept us anyway. We were everywhere. There was no escaping our visages staring out at you from the pages of magazines and TV talk shows and scotch ads and posters on the sides of buses, in the tabloid gossip columns, our blank expressions caught in the dead glare of the camera flash, a hand holding the cigarette a fan was lighting. We had invaded the world. have dinner at Le Bernardin," where our antics included food fights, hurling lobsters and hosing one another down with bottles of Dom Perignon until the unamused staff would ask us to vacate the premises. Since our editors were taking us out all the time on their limitless expense accounts, the publishing houses were actually paying for this debauchery. It was the beginning of a time when it was almost as if the novel itself didn't matter anymore-publishing a shiny booklike object was simply an excuse for parties and glamour and good-looking authors reading finely honed minimalism to students who would listen rapt with slack-jawed admiration, thinking, I could do that, I could be them. But of course if you weren't photogenic enough, the sad truth was you couldn't. And if you were not a supporter of the Brat Pack, you simply had to accept us anyway. We were everywhere. There was no escaping our visages staring out at you from the pages of magazines and TV talk shows and scotch ads and posters on the sides of buses, in the tabloid gossip columns, our blank expressions caught in the dead glare of the camera flash, a hand holding the cigarette a fan was lighting. We had invaded the world.

And I was on display. Everything I did was written about. The paparazzi followed me constantly. A spilled drink in Nell's suggested drunkenness in a Page Six item in the New York Post. New York Post. Dining at Ca.n.a.l Bar with Judd Nelson and Robert Downey Jr., who costarred in the movie adaptation of Dining at Ca.n.a.l Bar with Judd Nelson and Robert Downey Jr., who costarred in the movie adaptation of Less Than Zero, Less Than Zero, suggested "bad behavior" (true, but suggested "bad behavior" (true, but still still). An innocuous script meeting with Ally Sheedy over lunch at Palio was construed as a s.e.xual relationship. But I had put myself out there-I hadn't hidden-so what did I expect? I was doing Ray-Ban ads at twenty-two. I was posing for the covers of English magazines on a tennis court, on a throne, on the deck of my condo in a purple robe. I threw lavish catered parties-sometimes complete with strippers-in my condo on a whim ("Because It's Thursday!" one invitation read). I crashed a borrowed Ferrari in Southampton and its owner just smiled (for some reason I was naked). I attended three fairly exclusive orgies. I did guest spots as myself on Family Ties Family Ties and and The Facts of Life The Facts of Life and and Melrose Place Melrose Place and and Beverly Hills 90210 Beverly Hills 90210 and and Central Park West. Central Park West. I dined at the White House in the summer of 1986, the guest of Jeb and George W. Bush, both of whom were fans. My life was an unfolding parade made all the more magical by the constant materialization of cocaine, and if you wanted to hang out with me you had to carry at least an eight ball. And soon I became very adept at giving off the impression that I was listening to you when in fact I was dreaming about myself: my career, all the money I had made, the way my fame had blossomed and defined me, how recklessly the world allowed me to behave. Whenever I revisited L.A. over the Christmas holidays I usually chalked up four or five moving violations in the cream-colored 450 SL my father had handed down to me, but I lived in a place where the cops could be bought off, a place where you could drive at night without headlights, a place where you could snort c.o.ke while getting blown by the B-list actress, a place that allowed the three-day smack binge with the upcoming supermodel in the four-star hotel. It was a world that was quickly becoming a place with no boundaries. It was Dilaudid at noon. It was not talking to anyone in my immediate family for five months. I dined at the White House in the summer of 1986, the guest of Jeb and George W. Bush, both of whom were fans. My life was an unfolding parade made all the more magical by the constant materialization of cocaine, and if you wanted to hang out with me you had to carry at least an eight ball. And soon I became very adept at giving off the impression that I was listening to you when in fact I was dreaming about myself: my career, all the money I had made, the way my fame had blossomed and defined me, how recklessly the world allowed me to behave. Whenever I revisited L.A. over the Christmas holidays I usually chalked up four or five moving violations in the cream-colored 450 SL my father had handed down to me, but I lived in a place where the cops could be bought off, a place where you could drive at night without headlights, a place where you could snort c.o.ke while getting blown by the B-list actress, a place that allowed the three-day smack binge with the upcoming supermodel in the four-star hotel. It was a world that was quickly becoming a place with no boundaries. It was Dilaudid at noon. It was not talking to anyone in my immediate family for five months.

The two main events during the next phase of my life were the hurried publication of a second novel, The Rules of Attraction, The Rules of Attraction, and my affair with the actress Jayne Dennis. and my affair with the actress Jayne Dennis. The Rules of Attraction The Rules of Attraction was written during my senior year at Camden and detailed the s.e.x lives of a small group of wealthy, alienated, s.e.xually ambiguous students at a small New England liberal arts college (so like Camden itself that this is what I called the fictional university) during the height of the Reagan eighties. We followed them as they wandered from orgiastic party to orgiastic party, from one stranger's bed to another, and the text catalogued all the drugs devoured, all the alcohol guzzled, how easily they drifted into abortions and vast apathy and skipping cla.s.ses, and it was supposed to be an indictment of, well, really nothing, but at that point in my career I could have submitted the notes I had taken in my junior year Virginia Woolf course and would still have received the huge advance and copious amounts of publicity. The book was also a best seller, though not as successful as was written during my senior year at Camden and detailed the s.e.x lives of a small group of wealthy, alienated, s.e.xually ambiguous students at a small New England liberal arts college (so like Camden itself that this is what I called the fictional university) during the height of the Reagan eighties. We followed them as they wandered from orgiastic party to orgiastic party, from one stranger's bed to another, and the text catalogued all the drugs devoured, all the alcohol guzzled, how easily they drifted into abortions and vast apathy and skipping cla.s.ses, and it was supposed to be an indictment of, well, really nothing, but at that point in my career I could have submitted the notes I had taken in my junior year Virginia Woolf course and would still have received the huge advance and copious amounts of publicity. The book was also a best seller, though not as successful as Less Than Zero, Less Than Zero, and the press became even more fascinated with me, and by the decadence portrayed in the book and how it seemed to mirror my public lifestyle as well as the decade we were all trapped in. The book cemented my authority as and the press became even more fascinated with me, and by the decadence portrayed in the book and how it seemed to mirror my public lifestyle as well as the decade we were all trapped in. The book cemented my authority as the the spokesman for this generation, and my fame grew in direct proportion to the number of copies the book sold. It all kept coming: the cases of champagne consumed, the suits Armani sent over, the c.o.c.ktails in first cla.s.s, the charting on various power lists, the court seats at Lakers games, the shopping after hours at Barneys, the groupies, the paternity suits, the restraining orders against "determined fans," the first million, the second million, the third million. I was going to start my own line of furniture. I was going to have my own production company. And the spotlight's white glare kept intensifying, especially when I started dating Jayne Dennis. spokesman for this generation, and my fame grew in direct proportion to the number of copies the book sold. It all kept coming: the cases of champagne consumed, the suits Armani sent over, the c.o.c.ktails in first cla.s.s, the charting on various power lists, the court seats at Lakers games, the shopping after hours at Barneys, the groupies, the paternity suits, the restraining orders against "determined fans," the first million, the second million, the third million. I was going to start my own line of furniture. I was going to have my own production company. And the spotlight's white glare kept intensifying, especially when I started dating Jayne Dennis.

Jayne Dennis was a young model who had seamlessly made the transition to serious actress and had been steadily gaining recognition for her roles in a number of A-list projects. Our paths had crossed at various celebrity functions, and she had always been extremely flirtatious-but since everyone was flirting with me at that point in my life, her interest barely registered until she arrived at a Christmas party I threw in 1988 and basically hurled herself at me (I was that irresistible). At the after-party at Nell's I found myself making out with her in one of the club's front booths and then whisked her back to my suite at The Carlyle (it took the caterers two days to decorate the condo and three days to clean it up-there were five hundred guests-so I moved into a hotel the week of that party), where we had s.e.x all night and then I had a plane to catch the next morning to L.A. for the holidays. When I returned to New York we officially became a high-profile couple. We could be seen at an Elton John AIDS benefit concert at Madison Square Garden, we were photographed at a Hampton's polo match, we were interviewed by Entertainment Tonight Entertainment Tonight on the red carpet at the Ziegfeld premiere of the new Eddie Murphy comedy, we sat in the front row at a Versace fashion show, paparazzi followed us to a friend's villa in Nice. Though Jayne had fallen in love with me and wanted to get married, I was simply too preoccupied with myself and felt the relationship, if it kept running its course, would be doomed by summer. Besides her neediness and self-loathing, there were other insurmountable obstacles: namely drugs and, to a lesser extent, ma.s.sive alcohol consumption; there were other girls, there were other boys; there was always another party to get lost in. Jayne and I broke up amiably in May of 1989 and kept in touch in a sad/funny sort of way; there was a continuing wistfulness on her part and a high level of s.e.xual interest on mine. But I needed my s.p.a.ce. I needed to be alone. A woman wasn't going to interfere with my creativity (plus, Jayne didn't add anything to it). I had started a new novel that was beginning to demand most of my time. on the red carpet at the Ziegfeld premiere of the new Eddie Murphy comedy, we sat in the front row at a Versace fashion show, paparazzi followed us to a friend's villa in Nice. Though Jayne had fallen in love with me and wanted to get married, I was simply too preoccupied with myself and felt the relationship, if it kept running its course, would be doomed by summer. Besides her neediness and self-loathing, there were other insurmountable obstacles: namely drugs and, to a lesser extent, ma.s.sive alcohol consumption; there were other girls, there were other boys; there was always another party to get lost in. Jayne and I broke up amiably in May of 1989 and kept in touch in a sad/funny sort of way; there was a continuing wistfulness on her part and a high level of s.e.xual interest on mine. But I needed my s.p.a.ce. I needed to be alone. A woman wasn't going to interfere with my creativity (plus, Jayne didn't add anything to it). I had started a new novel that was beginning to demand most of my time.

What's left to say about American Psycho American Psycho that hasn't already been said? And I feel no need to go into great detail about it here. For those who weren't in the room at the time, here's the CliffsNotes version: I wrote a novel about a young, wealthy, alienated Wall Street yuppie named Patrick Bateman who also happened to be a serial killer filled with vast apathy during the height of the Reagan eighties. The novel was p.o.r.nographic and extremely violent, so much so that my publishers, Simon & Schuster, refused the book on grounds of taste, forfeiting a mid-six-figure advance. Sonny Mehta, the head of Knopf, snapped up the rights, and even before its publication the controversy and scandal the novel achieved was enormous. I did no press because it was pointless-my voice would have been drowned out by all the indignant wailing. The book was accused of introducing serial killer chic to the nation. It was reviewed in the that hasn't already been said? And I feel no need to go into great detail about it here. For those who weren't in the room at the time, here's the CliffsNotes version: I wrote a novel about a young, wealthy, alienated Wall Street yuppie named Patrick Bateman who also happened to be a serial killer filled with vast apathy during the height of the Reagan eighties. The novel was p.o.r.nographic and extremely violent, so much so that my publishers, Simon & Schuster, refused the book on grounds of taste, forfeiting a mid-six-figure advance. Sonny Mehta, the head of Knopf, snapped up the rights, and even before its publication the controversy and scandal the novel achieved was enormous. I did no press because it was pointless-my voice would have been drowned out by all the indignant wailing. The book was accused of introducing serial killer chic to the nation. It was reviewed in the New York Times, New York Times, three months before publication, under the headline "Don't Buy This Book." It was the subject of a 10,000-word essay by Norman Mailer in three months before publication, under the headline "Don't Buy This Book." It was the subject of a 10,000-word essay by Norman Mailer in Vanity Fair Vanity Fair ("the first novel in years to take on deep, dark, Dostoyevskian themes-how one wishes this writer was without talent!"). It was the object of scornful editorials, there were debates on CNN, there was a feminist boycott by the National Organization of Women and the obligatory death threats (a tour was canceled because of them). PEN and the Authors Guild refused to come to my rescue. I was vilified even though the book sold millions of copies and raised the fame quotient so high that my name became as recognizable as most movie stars' or athletes'. I was taken seriously. I was a joke. I was avant-garde. I was a traditionalist. I was underrated. I was overrated. I was innocent. I was partly guilty. I had orchestrated the controversy. I was incapable of orchestrating anything. I was considered the most misogynist American writer in existence. I was a victim of the burgeoning culture of the politically correct. The debates raged on and on, and not even the Gulf War in the spring of 1991 could distract the public's fear and worry and fascination from Patrick Bateman and his twisted life. I made more money than I knew what to do with. It was the year of being hated. ("the first novel in years to take on deep, dark, Dostoyevskian themes-how one wishes this writer was without talent!"). It was the object of scornful editorials, there were debates on CNN, there was a feminist boycott by the National Organization of Women and the obligatory death threats (a tour was canceled because of them). PEN and the Authors Guild refused to come to my rescue. I was vilified even though the book sold millions of copies and raised the fame quotient so high that my name became as recognizable as most movie stars' or athletes'. I was taken seriously. I was a joke. I was avant-garde. I was a traditionalist. I was underrated. I was overrated. I was innocent. I was partly guilty. I had orchestrated the controversy. I was incapable of orchestrating anything. I was considered the most misogynist American writer in existence. I was a victim of the burgeoning culture of the politically correct. The debates raged on and on, and not even the Gulf War in the spring of 1991 could distract the public's fear and worry and fascination from Patrick Bateman and his twisted life. I made more money than I knew what to do with. It was the year of being hated.

What I didn't-and couldn't-tell anyone was that writing the book had been an extremely disturbing experience. That even though I had planned to base Patrick Bateman on my father, someone-something-else took over and caused this new character to be my only reference point during the three years it took to complete the novel. What I didn't tell anyone was that the book was written mostly at night when the spirit of this madman would visit, sometimes waking me from a deep, Xanax-induced sleep. When I realized, to my horror, what this character wanted from me, I kept resisting, but the novel forced itself to be written. I would often black out for hours at a time only to realize that another ten pages had been scrawled out. My point-and I'm not quite sure how else to put this-is that the book wanted wanted to be written by someone else. It wrote itself, and didn't care how I felt about it. I would fearfully watch my hand as the pen swept across the yellow legal pads I did the first draft on. I was repulsed by this creation and wanted to take no credit for it-Patrick Bateman wanted the credit. And once the book was published, it almost seemed as if to be written by someone else. It wrote itself, and didn't care how I felt about it. I would fearfully watch my hand as the pen swept across the yellow legal pads I did the first draft on. I was repulsed by this creation and wanted to take no credit for it-Patrick Bateman wanted the credit. And once the book was published, it almost seemed as if he he was relieved and, more disgustingly, satisfied. He stopped appearing after midnight gleefully haunting my dreams, and I could finally relax and quit bracing myself for his nocturnal arrivals. But even years later I couldn't look at the book, let alone touch it or reread it-there was something, well, evil about it. My father never said anything to me about was relieved and, more disgustingly, satisfied. He stopped appearing after midnight gleefully haunting my dreams, and I could finally relax and quit bracing myself for his nocturnal arrivals. But even years later I couldn't look at the book, let alone touch it or reread it-there was something, well, evil about it. My father never said anything to me about American Psycho. American Psycho. Though oddly enough, after reading half of it that spring, he sent my mother a copy of Though oddly enough, after reading half of it that spring, he sent my mother a copy of Newsweek Newsweek with the cover that asked, over the angelic face of a baby, "Is Your Child Gay?" unaccompanied by any kind of note or explanation. with the cover that asked, over the angelic face of a baby, "Is Your Child Gay?" unaccompanied by any kind of note or explanation.

The death of my father occurred in August of 1992. At the time I was doing the Hamptons in a $20,000-a-month cottage on the beach in Wainscott, where I was trying to work through my writer's block while preparing for weekend guests (Ron Galotti, Campion Platt, Susan Minot, my Italian publisher, and McInerney), ordering the forty-dollar plum tart from the specialty bakery in East Hampton and picking up the two cases of Domaines Ott. I was trying to stay sober but I'd started opening bottles of chardonnay at ten in the morning, and if I'd drunk everything the night before, I would sit in the Porsche I'd leased for the summer in a Bridgehampton parking lot waiting for the liquor store to open, usually sharing a cigarette with Peter Maas, who was waiting there too. I had just broken up with a model over a bizarre argument while we were barbecuing mackerel-she complained about the drinking, the s.p.a.cing out, the exhibitionism, the gay thing, my weight gain, the paranoia. But it was the summer of Jeffrey Dahmer, the infamous h.o.m.os.e.xual/cannibal/serial killer from Wisconsin, and I became positive that he had been under the influence of American Psycho, American Psycho, since his crimes were just as gruesome and horrific as Patrick Bateman's. And since there since his crimes were just as gruesome and horrific as Patrick Bateman's. And since there had had been a serial killer in of all f.u.c.king places been a serial killer in of all f.u.c.king places Toronto, Toronto, for Christ's sake, who for Christ's sake, who had had read the book and based two of his murders on scenes from it, I made a number of frantic, drunken phone calls to my agent at ICM as well as to my publicists at Knopf to make sure this wasn't the case (it wasn't). And yes, it was true, I had gained forty pounds-I was so sunburned and fat that if you had drawn a face on a giant pink marshmallow and plopped it in front of a laptop, you could not have told the difference between the two of us. And, of course, being this out of shape, I was p.r.o.ne to skinny-dipping in the Atlantic just fifty yards from my $20,000-a-month cottage, and yeah, I had also developed a minor crush on a teenage guy who worked at Loaves and Fishes. So Trisha's leaving me was semiunderstandable. Calling me a "f.u.c.king lunatic" and speeding away in that leased Porsche was not. read the book and based two of his murders on scenes from it, I made a number of frantic, drunken phone calls to my agent at ICM as well as to my publicists at Knopf to make sure this wasn't the case (it wasn't). And yes, it was true, I had gained forty pounds-I was so sunburned and fat that if you had drawn a face on a giant pink marshmallow and plopped it in front of a laptop, you could not have told the difference between the two of us. And, of course, being this out of shape, I was p.r.o.ne to skinny-dipping in the Atlantic just fifty yards from my $20,000-a-month cottage, and yeah, I had also developed a minor crush on a teenage guy who worked at Loaves and Fishes. So Trisha's leaving me was semiunderstandable. Calling me a "f.u.c.king lunatic" and speeding away in that leased Porsche was not.

And then the summer was interrupted by a phone call in the middle of the night. He was found naked by the twenty-two-year-old girlfriend on the bathroom floor of his empty house in Newport Beach. That was all we knew.

I had no idea what to do, who to call, how to cope. I collapsed into shock. Someone had to remove me from that cottage and get me back to California. There was eventually only one person who could do all this for me-or, more pointedly, would. So Jayne left the set of a movie in Pennsylvania she was costarring in with Keanu Reeves and made plane reservations on MGM Grand and dragged my shivering hulk out of the Hamptons and flew to L.A. with me-all within twenty hours of hearing about my father's death. And that night, at the house in Sherman Oaks that I grew up in, drunk and terrified, I brutally made love to her in my childhood room while we both wept. Jayne returned the next day to the set in Pennsylvania. Keanu sent me flowers.

My father had made me trustee of his estate, which was worthless, and he also owed millions in back taxes, so there was a protracted legal battle with the IRS (they could not understand how someone who had made $20 million in the last six years of his life had spent it all-but this was before we found out about the rented Learjet and all the bad art) that kept me in Los Angeles for several months, locked in an office in Century City with three lawyers and half a dozen accountants until all the financial matters were cleared up. In the end I was left with two Patek Philippe watches and a boxful of oversized Armani suits, as well as a monumental relief that he was gone. (My mother and sisters-nothing.) The autopsy revealed that he had suffered a ma.s.sive stroke at 2:40 a.m., though the coroner was mystified by certain irregularities. No one wanted to pursue these irregularities and he was cremated immediately. His ashes were put into a bag-even though his (invalid) will stated that he wanted his children to spread them at sea off the coast of Cabo San Lucas, where he vacationed frequently-and we stored the ashes in a safe-deposit box in a Bank of America on Ventura Boulevard next to a dilapidated McDonald's. When I brought some of the Armani suits to a tailor to be altered (I had dropped all the weight I had gained that summer in a matter of weeks) I was revolted to discover that most of the inseams in the crotch of the trousers were stained with blood, which we later found out was the result of a botched penile implant he underwent in Minneapolis. My father, in his last years, due to the toxic mix of diabetes and alcoholism, had become impotent. I left the suits with the tailor and drove back to Sherman Oaks in tears, screaming while punching the roof of the Mercedes as I swerved recklessly through the canyons.

And when I returned to New York, I was told by Jayne that she was pregnant and that she intended to keep the child and that I was the father. I begged her to have an abortion. ("Change it! Fix it! Do something!" I screamed. "I can't be doing this! I'll be dead in two years! Don't look at me like I'm crazy!") Children had voices, they wanted to explain themselves, they wanted to tell you where everything was-and I could easily do without witnessing these special skills. I had already seen what I wanted and it did not involve children. Like all single men the first priority was my career. I had a fantasy bachelor's life and wanted to keep it. I raged at Jayne, confronted her with entrapment, insisted it wasn't mine. But she said she expected as much from me and had the child prematurely the following March at Cedars-Sinai, in L.A., where she was now living. I saw the child once during its first year-Jayne brought him over to the condo on 13th Street in a pathetic attempt at bonding when she was in town for the premiere of the movie she had made with Keanu Reeves the previous summer. She had named him Robert-Robby. Again I raged at her and insisted the child wasn't mine. She asked, "Then who the h.e.l.l do you think the father is?" I immediately made a connection and pounced on it. "Keanu Reeves!" I shouted. (Keanu had been a friend of mine when he was initially cast in Less Than Zero, Less Than Zero, but he was replaced by Andrew McCarthy when the studio producing the movie-Twentieth CenturyFox-scored a hit in the spring of 1987 with but he was replaced by Andrew McCarthy when the studio producing the movie-Twentieth CenturyFox-scored a hit in the spring of 1987 with Mannequin, Mannequin, a low-budget sleeper which starred McCarthy, and was produced, ironically, by the father of the girl the character Blair-the heroine of a low-budget sleeper which starred McCarthy, and was produced, ironically, by the father of the girl the character Blair-the heroine of Less Than Zero Less Than Zero-was based on; my world was that small.) I threatened to sue Jayne if she asked for child support. Since I refused to partic.i.p.ate in any testing, she hired a lawyer. I hired a lawyer. Her lawyer argued that "the child bears a striking resemblance to Mr. Ellis," while my lawyer countered, reluctantly, at my urging, with "said child bears a striking resemblance to a certain Mr. Keanu Reeves!" (the exclamation point being my idea; blowing my relationship with Keanu because of this, not my idea). Tests I was legally obliged to undergo proved that I was the father, but I claimed that Jayne had misrepresented the facts when she said she was using contraception. "Ms. Dennis and Mr. Ellis were in a non-exclusive relationship," my lawyer argued. "Regardless of Mr. Ellis being the father, it is her choice to be a single mother." I learned in cases such as these that e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n was the legal point of no return. But one morning, after a particularly acrimonious phone call between my lawyer and Jayne's, Marty hung up the phone, stunned, and looked at me. Jayne had given up. She no longer expected any child support and promptly dropped her lawsuit. It was at that moment in my lawyer's office at One World Trade Center that I realized she had named the child after my father, but when I confronted her about it later that day, after we had tentatively forgiven each other, she swore it had never occurred to her. (Which I still do not believe, and which I am certain is the reason that the following events in Lunar Park Lunar Park happened-it was the catalyst.) What else? Her parents hated me. Even after it was proven that I was the father, Jayne's last name remained on the birth certificate. I started wearing Hawaiian shirts and smoking cigars. Jayne had another child five years later-a girl named Sarah-and again the relationship with the father did not work out. (I knew the guy vaguely-a famous music executive in L.A.; he was a nice guy.) In the end, Jayne seemed practical and maternal and stable. We amiably kept in touch. She was still in love with me. I moved on. happened-it was the catalyst.) What else? Her parents hated me. Even after it was proven that I was the father, Jayne's last name remained on the birth certificate. I started wearing Hawaiian shirts and smoking cigars. Jayne had another child five years later-a girl named Sarah-and again the relationship with the father did not work out. (I knew the guy vaguely-a famous music executive in L.A.; he was a nice guy.) In the end, Jayne seemed practical and maternal and stable. We amiably kept in touch. She was still in love with me. I moved on.

Jayne always demanded Robby's name not be connected with mine in any of the press I did and of course I agreed, but in August of 1994, when Vanity Fair Vanity Fair a.s.signed a profile to run when Knopf published a.s.signed a profile to run when Knopf published The Informers, The Informers, that collection of short stories I had written when still at Camden, the reporter suggested who Robby's father might be and in his first draft-which ICM suspiciously got a peek at-cited a "reliable source" as saying that Bret Easton Ellis was in fact Robby's dad. I relayed this information to Jayne, who called my agent, Binky Urban, and the head of Knopf, Sonny Mehta, to demand that this "fact" be excised, and Graydon Carter-the editor of that collection of short stories I had written when still at Camden, the reporter suggested who Robby's father might be and in his first draft-which ICM suspiciously got a peek at-cited a "reliable source" as saying that Bret Easton Ellis was in fact Robby's dad. I relayed this information to Jayne, who called my agent, Binky Urban, and the head of Knopf, Sonny Mehta, to demand that this "fact" be excised, and Graydon Carter-the editor of Vanity Fair Vanity Fair and also a friend-agreed to cut it, much to the chagrin of the reporter who had "endured" a week with me in Richmond, Virginia, where I supposedly was hiding out at a friend's house. Actually, I was secretly attending the Canyon Ranch that had recently opened there to get in shape for the brief book tour I'd promised to do for Knopf to support and also a friend-agreed to cut it, much to the chagrin of the reporter who had "endured" a week with me in Richmond, Virginia, where I supposedly was hiding out at a friend's house. Actually, I was secretly attending the Canyon Ranch that had recently opened there to get in shape for the brief book tour I'd promised to do for Knopf to support The Informers. The Informers. That information never made it into the article, either. That information never made it into the article, either.

Very few people (close friends included) knew anything about this, my secret son, and-except for Jay McInerney and my editor, Gary Fisketjon, both of whom Robby met when Jayne and I attended the wedding of a mutual friend in Nashville-no one I was acquainted with had ever seen him, including my mother and my sisters. At that wedding in Nashville, Jayne informed me that Robby had been asking where his father was, why his dad wasn't living with them, why he never came to visit. Supposedly there were an increasing number of tearful outbursts and long silences; there was confusion and the demand of proof; there were anxieties, irrational fears, attachment disorders, tantrums at school. He wouldn't let people touch him. Yet at the wedding in Nashville he had instinctively reached for my hand-I was still a stranger, his mother's friend, n.o.body-to show me a lizard he thought he had seen behind a hedge outside the hotel where a large number of the wedding guests were staying. This was something I pretended didn't bother me, and I tried to refrain from mentioning him at the thousands of c.o.c.ktail parties I attended during the following years. But at that moment in the evening when someone brought out the cocaine (which had admittedly become nightly by that point), fragments of this hidden life would tumble teasingly from my mouth. Though when I noticed the saddened, shocked expressions of people who sensed the yearning behind the mask, I would quickly shut up and offer my new mantra-"I'm kidding, I'm just kidding"-and then I would reintroduce whatever new girl I was dating to people she had known for years. The girl would look up from a mirror piled high with cocaine and stare at me wonderingly, shudder and then lean back down, causing another line to disappear through a tightly rolled twenty-dollar bill. The wedding-after Robby took my hand for the first time-was the beginning. This was the moment when the son suddenly became real to the father. It was also the first year I spent close to $100,000 on drugs. Money that-what?-could have gone to Robby, I suppose. But Jayne was commanding $4 to $5 million per picture, and I was high all the time, so it stopped bothering me.

But a lot of people thought I was gay so they would soon forget that Bret Easton Ellis had mentioned-raving, c.o.ked-up, sucking back another Stoli-that he had fathered a child. The gay thing being the outcome of a drunken British interview I was doing to promote the BBC doc.u.mentary about my life thus far at thirty-three, its t.i.tle taken from American Psycho American Psycho's last line: This Is Not an Exit: The Bret Easton Ellis Story This Is Not an Exit: The Bret Easton Ellis Story (the fame, the excess, the falloff, the dysfunction, the heartbreak, the DUI, the shoplifting incident, the arrest in Washington Square Park, the comeback, walking tiredly through a gym in slow motion while Radiohead's "Creep" blasted over the soundtrack). Noting casually that I appeared "rather effete" in many of the clips, and instead of asking if I was on drugs, the reporter wondered if I was a h.o.m.os.e.xual. And I said, "Yeah, you bet I am-sure!" adding what I thought to be a jaunty and overtly sarcastic remark about coming out of the closet: "Thank G.o.d!" I shouted. "Someone has (the fame, the excess, the falloff, the dysfunction, the heartbreak, the DUI, the shoplifting incident, the arrest in Washington Square Park, the comeback, walking tiredly through a gym in slow motion while Radiohead's "Creep" blasted over the soundtrack). Noting casually that I appeared "rather effete" in many of the clips, and instead of asking if I was on drugs, the reporter wondered if I was a h.o.m.os.e.xual. And I said, "Yeah, you bet I am-sure!" adding what I thought to be a jaunty and overtly sarcastic remark about coming out of the closet: "Thank G.o.d!" I shouted. "Someone has finally finally outed me!" I had told countless interviewers about s.e.xually experimenting with men-and went into explicit detail about the collegiate threesomes I had at Camden in a outed me!" I had told countless interviewers about s.e.xually experimenting with men-and went into explicit detail about the collegiate threesomes I had at Camden in a Rolling Stone Rolling Stone profile-but this time it struck a nerve. Paul Bogaards, my publicist at Knopf, actually called me a "potty-mouthed b.u.t.t pirate" after reading the piece in the profile-but this time it struck a nerve. Paul Bogaards, my publicist at Knopf, actually called me a "potty-mouthed b.u.t.t pirate" after reading the piece in the Independent, Independent, while relishing the storm of controversy this admission caused, not to mention the increased sales of my backlist. The creator of Patrick Bateman, author of while relishing the storm of controversy this admission caused, not to mention the increased sales of my backlist. The creator of Patrick Bateman, author of American Psycho, American Psycho, the most misogynistic novel ever written, was actually-gasp!-a h.o.m.os.e.xual?!? And the gay thing sort of stuck. After that interview appeared I was even named one of the the most misogynistic novel ever written, was actually-gasp!-a h.o.m.os.e.xual?!? And the gay thing sort of stuck. After that interview appeared I was even named one of the Advocate Advocate's 100 Most Interesting Gay People of the year, which drove my legitimately gay friends nuts and prompted confused, tearful phone calls from Jayne. But I was just being "rambunctious." I was just being a "prankster." I was just being "Bret." Over the years photos of me in a Jacuzzi at the Playboy Mansion (I was a regular when I was in L.A.) kept appearing in that magazine's "Hanging with Hef" page, so there was "consternation" about my s.e.xuality. The National Enquirer National Enquirer said I was dating Julianna Margulies or Christy Turlington or Marina Rust. They said I was dating Candace Bushnell, Rupert Everett, Donna Tartt, Sherry Stringfield. Supposedly I was dating George Michael. I was even dating both Diane Von Furstenberg said I was dating Julianna Margulies or Christy Turlington or Marina Rust. They said I was dating Candace Bushnell, Rupert Everett, Donna Tartt, Sherry Stringfield. Supposedly I was dating George Michael. I was even dating both Diane Von Furstenberg and and Barry Diller. I wasn't straight, I wasn't gay, I wasn't bi, I didn't know what I was. But it was all my fault, and I enjoyed the fact that people were actually interested in who I was sleeping with. Did it matter? I was a mystery, an enigma, and that was what mattered-that's what sold books, that's what made me even more famous. Propaganda designated to enhance the already very chic image of author as handsome young playboy. Barry Diller. I wasn't straight, I wasn't gay, I wasn't bi, I didn't know what I was. But it was all my fault, and I enjoyed the fact that people were actually interested in who I was sleeping with. Did it matter? I was a mystery, an enigma, and that was what mattered-that's what sold books, that's what made me even more famous. Propaganda designated to enhance the already very chic image of author as handsome young playboy.

On heroin I thought everything I did was innocent and full of love and I had a yearning to bond with humanity and I was relaxed and serene and focused and I was frank and I was caring and I signed so many autographs and made so many new friends (who dwindled away, who didn't make it). At the time I discovered dope I also started the decade-long process (the nineties) of outlining, writing and promoting a 500-page novel called Glamorama, Glamorama, about an international terrorist ring using the fashion world as a cover. And the book promised-predictably-to make me a multi-millionaire again and even more famous. But I had to do a world tour. This is what I promised when I signed the contracts; this was what was required of me to become the multimillionaire again; this was what ICM insisted on so they could collect the commissions from the multimillionaire. But I was heavily into smack and the sixteen-month-long tour was considered by the publishing house to be a potentially "precarious" situation, since I was, according to Sonny Mehta, "kind of high all the time." But they relented. They needed me to do the tour to help recoup the ma.s.sive advance they'd laid out. (I told them to send Jay McInerney in my place-no one could tell the difference, I argued, plus I was positive Jay would actually do it. n.o.body at Knopf thought this was even vaguely feasible.) Besides, I wanted to be that multimillionaire again, so I promised them I was clean-and for a little whil