The Real Filth in 'American Psycho': A Critical Reassessment

An afternoon in late 1991 found me on a Sydney bus reading Brett Easton Ellis' 'American Psycho' (1991). A disembarking passenger paused at my side and, as I glanced up, hissed, "I don’t know how you can read that filth". As she continued to make her way to the front of the vehicle, I was as stunned as if she had struck me physically. There was real vehemence in both her words and how they were delivered, and I can still see her eyes squeezing into slits as she hesitated while curling her mouth around that final angry word: "filth". Now, almost fifteen years later, the memory is remarkably vivid. As the event is also still remarkable; this comment remaining the only remark ever made to me by a stranger about anything I have been reading during three decades of travelling on public transport.