American Psycho 2000 quotes, page 3

62 quotes · 7 characters
American Psycho (2000) poster
Characters
Jean ChloĆ« Sevigny · 8 quotes
Bryce Justin Theroux · 5 quotes
McDermott Josh Lucas · 5 quotes
Van Patten Bill Sage · 4 quotes
Courtney Rawlinson Samantha Mathis · 3 quotes

Most scenes together: Patrick Bateman & Jean (8), Patrick Bateman & Bryce (5), Patrick Bateman & Evelyn (5)

American Psycho quotes

Page 3 of 5

They don't have a good bathroom to do coke in.

Are you sure that's Paul Allen over there?

Yes. McDufus, I am.

He's handling the Fisher account.

Lucky bastard.

Lucky Jew bastard.

Oh, Jesus, McDermott, what does that have to do with anything?

Listen. I've seen the bastard sitting in his office on the phone with CEOs, spinning a **** menorah. The bastard brought a Hanukkah bush into the office last December.

You spin a dreidel, McDermott, not a menorah. You spin a dreidel.

Oh, my God. Bateman, do you want me to fry you up some **** potato pancakes? Some latkes?

No. Just cool it with the anti-Semitic remarks.

Oh, I forgot. Bateman's dating someone from the ACLU.

Waiter

Would you like to hear today's specials?

Not if you want to keep your spleen.

Luis
(As Bateman is loading a recent murder victim into the trunk of a taxi, a co-worker spots him)

Patrick? Patrick, is that you?

No, Luis, it's not me. You're mistaken.

[after being kicked in the face by Christie the prostitute]

Not the face! You bitch! Not the **** face, you piece of bitch trash!

[Assessing a business card]

Look at that subtle off-white coloring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh my God, it even has a watermark.

[excusing himself from Detective Kimball]

Listen, you'll have to excuse me. I have a lunch meeting with Cliff Huxtable at the Four Seasons in 20 minutes.

[faking a conversation on the phone]

Now, John, you've got to wear clothes in proportion to your physique. There are definite do and don'ts, good buddy of wearing a bold striped shirt. A bold stripe shirt calls for solid colored or discreetly patterned suits and ties. [pause] Yes, always tip the stylist 15%. Listen, John, I've gotta go, T. Boone Pickens just walked in. [laughs] Just joking. No, don't tip the owner of the salon. Okay John? Right? Got it.

[voice-over]

There is a moment of sheer panic when I realize that Paul's apartment overlooks the park... and is obviously more expensive than mine.

[voiceover]

As we arrive at Espace I'm on the verge of tears as I'm certain we won't get a decent table. But we do; relief washes over me in an awesome wave.

Do you like Phil Collins? I've been a big Genesis fan ever since the release of their 1980 album, Duke. Before that, I really didn't understand any of their work. Too artsy, too intellectual. It was on Duke where, uh, Phil Collins' presence became more apparent. I think Invisible Touch was the group's undisputed masterpiece. It's an epic meditation on intangibility. At the same time, it deepens and enriches the meaning of the preceding three albums. Christy, take off your robe. Listen to the brilliant ensemble playing of Banks, Collins and Rutherford. You can practically hear every nuance of every instrument. Sabrina, remove your dress. In terms of lyrical craftsmanship, the sheer songwriting, this album hits a new peak of professionalism. Sabrina, why don't you, uh, dance a little. Take the lyrics to Land of Confusion. In this song, Phil Collins addresses the problems of abusive political authority. In Too Deep is the most moving pop song of the 1980s, about monogamy and commitment. The song is extremely uplifting. Their lyrics are as positive and affirmative as, uh, anything I've heard in rock. Christy, get down on your knees so Sabrina can see your asshole. Phil Collins' solo career seems to be more commercial and therefore more satisfying, in a narrower way. Especially songs like In the Air Tonight and, uh, Against All Odds. Sabrina, don't just stare at it, eat it. But I also think Phil Collins works best within the confines of the group, than as a solo artist, and I stress the word artist. This is Sussudio, a great, great song, a personal favorite.

Eleven thirty-four. We stand on the sidewalk in front of Jean's apartment on the Upper East Side. Her doorman eyes us warily and fills me with a nameless dread, his gaze piercing me from the lobby. 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.