ITT:Disturbing books

ITT:Disturbing books

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the only disturbing thing is the 47th detailed description of every piece of clothing someone is wearing

Horrible book, chore to read.

my diary desu

>the rat torture
Disturbing scene in this book

you're thinking of 1984, m8, it's a little different...

The murder scenes are fucking disturbing,they are very detailed.

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Disturbingly boring

>Boring
i think you don´t get the book,the book IS to be boring,and detailed.

Great book.
The murder scenes were somehow way more disturbing than I was anticipating, and the everyday scenes of Bateman and his autism were far funnier than I expected

Boring on purpose is still boring.

American psycho is the funniest book I've read desu

So it is boring then?
BEE hits you over the head with his point so much it becomes tiresome (yes... I realise this is the point)

jesus christ man, that's one of the most disturbing things I've ever come across, books or films or whatever really. Car battery scene is disgusting too

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Why he put extreme violence,detailed fashion and funny scenes?,is necessary?

The rats in the wall by Lovecraft it's the most scary and well developed short story,and disturbing as hell, more than others stories

based!

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MONTRESSOR

"look bateman, i know my behaviour earlier was bad, and I just wanted to say that im -"
"a bitch? listen i got some coke you want to do some?"

funniest exchange of dialogue in the book

The book that came to me just a few hours ago. It finally hit me like a fucking tidal wave. It will be an unpublishable book that needs to be published

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or how about
"can I have a tip sir?"
"yeah heres a tip, get a real job you stupid nigger"

chuck palahniuk's haunted was okay-ish
120 days of sodom

Bateman is fucking hilarious. I laughed my ass off when he was talking about his Christopher Cross compact disk.

Shit book,uses violence,sex to gain attention,just look at crime and punishment,it's a more realistic way to show crimes,not in a crazy man who kills and mutilate woman,also some scenes it's IMPOSSIBLE,Bret see some FBI cases and put in the book,clockwork orange is a masterpiece and a good black comedy,just saying American Psycho is overrated and explained all this in
>i am crazy guy who kills and hate others people.

I lost my shit during the 3 way call later on where they just trying to decide where to go to eat. It was this insane combination of comfy, lame, and outre seeing how these guys act in their 'unremarkable' private moments. All the while Bateman is fucking with his mutant sewer rat.

>t. didn't get it
What's it like being this much of a philistine?

FPBP

Color out of the space,scary me everytime,just a thing spook me,my favorite story from Lovecraft.

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What the fuck i just read

There was a short story I read on here a few years ago. It was about a young woman who signed a contract with this creep who had an underground sex-torture dungeon, and he tortured her for years and ended up burying her alive in concrete. Does anybody have a copy or a link or something?

When Bateman is poking at his steak, while eating dinner with his girlfriend, and he wipes his hand on her stockings, but she just thinks he is giving her a love squeeze. ABSOLUTE MADMAN.

When Bateman feeds a chocolate-covered urinal cake to his girlfriend is probably the funniest part.

I don't understand,he is imagining the murders or he did?,the park bench,cheerio,bigfoot,is he imagining right?because it's look he killed some people and not killed.m.youtube.com/watch?v=gE6AVp-2Jic
For illustrate.

>being this much of a brainlet

>that time Bateman froze a used urinal cake, dipped it in chocolate, and had it served at a restaurant to trick his fiance Evelyn into eating it
top zany

>working my shit retail job today
>"It's Hip to Be Square" starts playing over the store radio
>me to my middle-aged Latina co-worker who speaks only broken English: "Do ya like Huey Lewis and the News?"
>proceed to recite the entire monologue as best I can remember
>reach the conclusion
>"it's not just about the pleasures of conformity and the importance of trends. It's also a personal statement about the band itself. Hey Martha!"
>raise my arms above my head and pantomime chopping her up while mock screaming
>Martha just ignores me
>later in the day my manager wants to talk to me
>Apparently I'm no longer allowed to share music reviews with my co-workers or discuss pop culture

Based if true, funny nonetheless.

>Apparently I'm no longer allowed to share music reviews with my co-workers or discuss pop culture
I hope you told him you had to return some videotapes

You have to wonder, did he make that stuff up, or did he research and incorporate shit actual psychopaths have done? If the former...that's truly disturbing.

Any more like this?

I don't remember this part.

>it's a more realistic way to show crimes
Are you retarded? Do you think people have existential crisis to the point of becoming crazy just for killing someone? I have been working inside a prison for 4 years and never met a person who looked troubled about for doing something like that, all they care is getting out as fast as they can and secure themselves while inside the prison. The only troubled people i meet are the ones who had normal lives and are embarrassed for being caugh; even so, the way they cope with it is by trying to look tough, making it look like they don't care. You also didn't get the book.

I know you are probably baiting but i was amazed to read such a bullshit, i couldn't help but reply.

>I have been working inside a prison for 4 years
Heh, i sound like a tought guy saying that. I am a telephonist btw but i usually chat with the inmates.

This

Michael Gira's Consumer; the Savoy Books Lord Horror series; the James Havoc crap; Dennis Cooper; Samuel Delany; the Babyfucker pleb. Etc.

Yawn.

he describes how he has a couple of corpses lying around his apartment, and how he has connected a girl's nipples to a car battery. Her corpse is black from the electricity and the fat in her breasts has melted and exploded, splattered across the room

I feel like the murders are too inventive to actually have happened. I feel like it's more likely that the collective of authors over the years have managed to come up with something that disturbing, than that the collective of insane serial killers have done so. They are much fewer. But yeah, I agree with you. I can't picture the place he must have been in mentally to be able to come up with something like that and describe it in detail

I know it's a satire,but imagine he doing this in a real life?the police is going to caught he,he is a serial killer,and probably is going to be death in prison,there is no way to a society to undercover his crimes,it's a book,but if his happen in society,he is in prison or death.

"Hello," I say, offering thy hand, the one the dog licked. "Pat Bateman." The bum stares at me, panting with the exertion it takes to sit up. He doesn't shake my hand. "You want some money?" I ask gently. "Some… food?" The bum nods and starts to cry, thankfully. I reach into my pocket and pull out a ten-dollar bill, then change my mind and hold out a five instead. "Is this what you need?" The bum nods again and looks away, shamefully, his nose running, and after clearing his throat says quietly, "I'm so hungry." "It's cold out, too," I say. "Isn't it?" "I'm so hungry." He convulses once, twice, a third time, then looks away, embarrassed. "Why don't you get a job?" I ask, the bill still held in my hand but not within the bum's reach. "If you're so hungry, why don't you get a job?" He breathes in, shivering, and between sobs admits, "I lost my job…" "Why?" I ask, genuinely interested. "Were you drinking? Is that why you lost it? Insider trading? just joking. No, really - were you drinking on the job?" He hugs himself, between sobs, chokes, "I was fired. I was laid off." I take this in, nodding. "Gee, uh, that's too bad." "I'm so hungry," he says, then starts crying hard, still holding himself. His dog, the thing called Gizmo, starts whimpering. "Why don't you get another one?" I ask. "Why don't you get another job?" "I'm not…" He coughs, holding himself, shaking miserably, violently, unable to finish the sentence. "You're not what?" I ask softly. "Qualified for anything else?" "Tm hungry," he whispers. "I know that, I know that," I say. 'Jeez, you're like a broken record. I'm trying to help you…" My impatience rises. "I'm hungry," he repeats. "Listen. Do you think it's fair to take money from people who do have jobs? Who do work?" His face crumples and he gasps, his voice raspy, "What am I gonna do?" "Listen," I say. "What's your name?" "Al," he says. "Speak up," I tell him. "Come on." "Al," he says, a little louder. "Get a goddamn job, Al," I say earnestly. "You've got a negative attitude. That's what's stopping you. You've got to get your act together. I'll help you." "You're so kind, mister. You're kind. You're a kind man," he blubbers. "I can tell." "Shhh," I whisper. "It's okay." I start petting the dog. "Please," he says, grabbing for my wrist. "I don't know what to do. I'm so cold." "Do you know how bad you smell?" I whisper this soothingly, stroking his face. "The stench, my god…" "I can't…" He chokes, then swallows. "I can't find a shelter." "You reek," I tell him. "You reek of… shit." I'm still petting the dog, its eyes wide and wet and grateful. "Do you know that? Goddamnit, Al - look at me and stop crying like some kind of faggot," I shout. My rage builds, subsides, and I close my eyes,bringing my hand up
(Continued)

to squeeze the bridge of my nose, then I sigh: "Al… I'm sorry. It's just that… I don't know. I don't have anything in common with you." The bum's not listening. He's crying so hard he's incapable of a coherent answer. I put the bill slowly back into the pocket of my Luciano Soprani jacket and with the other hand stop petting the dog and reach into the other pocket. The bum stops sobbing abruptly and sits up, looking for the fiver or, I presume, his bottle of Thunderbird. I reach out and touch his face gently once more with compassion and whisper, "Do you know what a fucking loser you are?" He starts nodding helplessly and I pull out a long, thin knife with a serrated edge and, being very careful not to kill him, push maybe half an inch of the blade into his right eye, flicking the handle up, instantly popping the retina. The bum is too surprised to say anything. He only opens his mouth in shock and moves a grubby, mittened hand slowly up to his face. I yank his pants down and in the passing headlights of a taxi can make out his flabby black thighs, rashed because of his constantly urinating in the pantsuit. The stench of shit rises quickly into my face and breathing through my mouth, down on my haunches, I start stabbing him in the stomach, lightly, above the dense matted patch of pubic hair. This sobers him up somewhat and instinctively he tries to cover himself with his hands and the dog starts yipping, really furiously, but it doesn't attack, and I keep stabbing at the bum now between his fingers, stabbing the backs of his hands. His eye, burst open, hangs out of its socket and runs down his face and he keeps blinking which causes what's left of it inside the wound to pour out like red, veiny egg yolk. I grab his head with one hand and push it back and then with my thumb and forefinger hold the other eye open and bring the knife up and push the tip of it into the socket, first breaking its protective film so the socket fills with blood, then slitting the eyeball open sideways, and he finally starts screaming once I slit his nose in two, lightly spraying me and the dog with blood, Gizmo blinking to get the blood out of his eyes. I quickly wipe the blade clean across the bum's face, breaking open the muscle above his cheek. Still kneeling, I throw a quarter in his face, which is slick and shiny with blood, both sockets hollowed out and filled with gore, what's left of his eyes literally oozing over his screaming lips in thick, webby strands. Calmly, I whisper, "There's a quarter. Go buy some gum, you crazy fucking faggot." Then I turn to the barking dog and when I get up, stomp on its front legs while it's crouched down ready to jump at me, its fangs bared, immediately shattering the bones in both its legs, and it falls on its side squealing in pain, front paws sticking up in the air at an obscene, satisfying angle. I can't help but start laughing and I linger at the scene, amused by this tableau. (Continued)

When I spot an approaching taxi, I slowly walk away.
End
In the book there are no" (continued) and the End",i do to help and understand the text.

A child, barely five, finishes eating a candy bar. His mother tells him to throw the wrapper away, then resumes talking to another woman, who is with a child around the same age, the three of them staring into the dirty blueness of the penguin habitat. The first child moves toward the trash can, located in a dim corner in the back of the room, that I am now crouching behind. He stands on tiptoes, carefully throwing the wrapper into the trash. I whisper something. The child spots me and just stands there, away from the crowd, slightly scared but also dumbly fascinated. I stare back. “Would you like… a cookie?” I ask, reaching into my pocket. He nods his small head, up, then down, slowly, but before he can answer, my sudden lack of care crests in a massive wave of fury and I pull the knife out of my pocket and I stab him, quickly, in the neck. Bewildered, he backs into the trash can, gurgling like an infant, unable to scream or cry out because of the blood that starts spurting out of the wound in his throat. Though I’d like to watch this child die, I push him down behind the garbage can, then casually mingle in with the rest of the crowd and touch the shoulder of a pretty girl, and smiling I point to a penguin preparing to make a dive. Behind me, if one were to look closely, one could see the child’s feet kicking in back of the trash can. I keep an eye on the child’s mother, who after a while notices her son’s absence and starts scanning the crowd. I touch the girl’s shoulder again, and she smiles at me and shrugs apologetically, but I can’t figure out why. When the mother finally notices him she doesn’t scream because she can see only his feet and assumes that he’s playfully hiding from her. At first she seems relieved that she’s spotted him and moving toward the trash can she coos, “Are you playing hide-and-seek, honey?” But from where I stand, behind the pretty girl, who I’ve already found out is foreign, a tourist, I can see the exact moment when the expression on the mother’s face changes into fear, and slinging her purse over her shoulder she pulls the trash can away, revealing a face completely covered in red blood and the child’s having trouble blinking its eyes because of this, grabbing at his throat, now kicking weakly. The mother makes a sound that I cannot describe—something high-pitched that turns into screaming.
(Continued)

After she falls to the floor beside the body, a few people turning around, I find myself shouting out, my voice heavy with emotion, “I’m a doctor, move back, I’m a doctor,” and I kneel beside the mother before an interested crowd gathers around us and I pry her arms off the child, who is now on his back struggling vainly for breath, the blood coming evenly but in dying arcs out of his neck and onto his Polo shirt, which is drenched with it. And I have a vague awareness during the minutes I hold the child’s head, reverently, careful not to bloody myself, that if someone makes a phone call or if a real doctor is at hand, there’s a good chance the child can be saved. But this doesn’t happen. Instead I hold it, mindlessly, while the mother—homely, Jewish-looking, overweight, pitifully trying to appear stylish in designer jeans and an unsightly leaf-patterned black wool sweater—shrieks do something, do something, do something, the two of us ignoring the chaos, the people who start screaming around us, concentrating only on the dying child. Though I am satisfied at first by my actions, I’m suddenly jolted with a mournful despair at how useless, how extraordinarily painless, it is to take a child’s life. This thing before me, small and twisted and bloody, has no real history, no worthwhile past, nothing is really lost. It’s so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has the beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child’s would, perhaps ruin many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy.
(Continued

I’m automatically seized with an almost overwhelming desire to knife the boy’s mother too, who is in hysterics, but all I can do is slap her face harshly and shout for her to calm down. For this I’m given no disapproving looks. I’m dimly aware of light coming into the room, of a door being opened somewhere, of the presence of zoo officials, a security guard, someone—one of the tourists?—taking flash pictures, the penguins freaking out in the tank behind us, slamming themselves against the glass in a panic. A cop pushes me away, even though I tell him I’m a physician. Someone drags the boy outside, lays him on the ground and removes his shirt. The boy gasps, dies. The mother has to be restrained.
End
Also the quotes are from American Psycho
I don't will post more, but it's to give a picture of how murder scenes are fucking detailed.

oh shit I misunderstood what you were saying, I thought we were talking about BEE. The real estate agent's reaction in the end suggests that he actually did kill those people, and it goes in line with the theme of how BEE imagines that ruthless capitalism reduces individuals to bodies of matter, indistinguishable from each other. I think he's hinting at how it wouldn't even matter if one of them killed a bunch of people since nobody cares about anything other than their new shoes and table reservations

I think american Psycho is the only book ,disturbing and funny, any books ,disturbing and funny?

Peter Sotos

...

They're really not that detailed, in fact they're actually quite terse. I remember them being pretty gruesome as well, but I think in retrospect I might've been doing a lot more of the legwork as far as imagining the murder goes than Ellis was.

Clockwork Orange is overrated and can be explained all in this
>Kids will be kids, but eventually they'll grow up and be functioning members of society.

Crime and Punishment is overrated and can be explained all in this
>Doing bad things makes you feel bad

Blood Meridian
Notes from the Underground

I bet you think moby dick is a classic too

American psycho is overrated and can be explained all in this
>Rich guy kills or imagine and society is corrupte
American Psycho by critics of literature is a classic,but can never reach the masterpiece of Clockwork Orange and More,Crime and Punishment,you think it´s very simple,but when you read,it´s more detailed and well done,and not a "doing bad things makes you fell bad",and for the clockwork orange,you don´t get the distopia of the book.

Moby Dick is classic,what is wrong?,and a great art and you think is a boring book about whales?

I say wrong,is corrupt
the movie is good,but the book is a lot better.

Are you shitposting? Your posts are borderline unintelligible.

> Martha just ignores me
she prolly also doesn't even listen to the lyrics

No, why?

This book makes me feel crazy

This one

Very uncomfortable read.

120 days of sodom

Have people claiming this is spooky/dark ever read this, i wonder? One of the funniest books ive read imo

I still chortle when they're in the restaurant and they keep getting given Bellinis, or when Trump says he loves the pizza there after Bateman talks shit about it.

w-what is this?

...

dude gets cucked by a nigger and is forced to watch by an evil computer

Anyone know of any books similar to Tiger, Tiger by Margaux Fragoso?

t. butthurt pussy

>A young girl, a freshman, I met in a bar in Cambridge my junior year at Harvard told me early one fall that “Life is full of endless possibilities.” I tried valiantly not to choke on the beer nuts I was chewing while she gushed this kidney stone of wisdom, and I calmly washed them down with the rest of a Heineken, smiled and concentrated on the dart game that was going on in the corner. Needless to say, she did not live to see her sophomore year. That winter, her body was found floating in the Charles River, decapitated, her head hung from a tree on the bank, her hair knotted around a low-hanging branch, three miles away.

>I-It's just so...minty!

Fifty shades of grey

>Rat torture

Go on

Oh, it just happens occasionally in Japan.

kafka thought so too

I think In the Penal Colony is a pretty kekworthy read, but everyone thinks I'm stupid for that.

Obligatory