I miss Paris Métro. I miss our futile attempts to read the Métro map. I miss Parisians' effortlessly chic outfits and modernistic ads that oddly harmonize with dim, historic stations. I miss taking photos of approaching trains. I miss the feel of déjà vu in old, metallic trains. I miss the amicable chuckles as we mispronounced the stations. I miss the days when my biggest troubles were figuring out where, when and what to explore at Paris. I miss myself.
Ridiculously thought-provoking. The underside of the American dream. When it is often presented as a path to follow, a social and personal ascension, possibly all the way to the top, American Psycho proposes to show us not how you get there, but who you have become at the end of the journey. The MC is a narcissistic imposter, an ultra-conformist consumer, and a cold rational serial killer. Incapable of empathy, fascinated by violence, obsessed with symbols of success, materialistic to the core and profoundly unhappy. But is it possible to break free from the nuclear chain reaction of simulacrums? A radical answer is given at the ending, an outstanding "chute".