I think we’ve all lost some kind of feeling.
BRET EASTON ELLISThere’s no grand plan. All I know is that I write the books I want to write. All that other stuff is meaningless to me.
More Bret Easton Ellis Quotes
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Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way.
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I think basically most men are misogynistic.
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I totally relate to Tom Cruise. He’s not crazy, it’s just the litany of the mid-life crisis.
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My mask of sanity was a victim of impending slippage. This was the bone season for me and I needed a vacation.
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That’s how I became the damaged party boy who wandered through the wreckage, blood streaming from his nose, asking questions that never required answers.
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A great numb feeling washes over me as I let go of the past and look forward to the future. Pretend to be a vampire.
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Open the hood of a car and it will tell you something about the people who designed it, is just one of many phrases I’m tortured by.
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No one is drawn to writing about being happy or feelings of joy.
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I think a lot of snowflakes are alike…and I think a lot of people are alike too.
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Hello, Halberstam,” Owen says, walking by. Hello, Owen,” I say, admiring the way he’s styled and slicked back his hair, with a part so even and sharp it…
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I’m not a big believer in disciplined writers. What does discipline mean? The writer who forces himself to sit down and write for seven hours every day might be wasting those seven hours if he’s not in the mood and doesn’t feel the juice. I don’t think discipline equals creativity.
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Devastates me and I make a mental note to ask him where he purchases his hair-care products, which kind of mousse he uses, my final guesses after mulling over the possibilities being Ten-X.
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People just… disappear,” he says. “The Earth just opens up and swallows people,” I say, some what sadly, checking my Rolex. “Eerie.” Kimball yawns, stretching. “Really eerie.” “Ominous.” I nod my agreement. “It’s just”- he sights, exasperated- “futile.
BRET EASTON ELLIS -
At Columbus Circle, a juggler wearing a trench cloak and top hat, who is usually at this location afternoons and who calls himself Stretch Man, performs in front of a small, uninterested crowd; though I smell prey, and he seems worthy of my wrath.
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Her taste in music haunted my memory and I had to stop at Tower Records on the Upper West Side to buy ninety dollars’ worth of rap CDs but, as expected, I’m at a loss: […] voices uttering ugly words like digit, pudding, chunk.
BRET EASTON ELLIS