‘AMERICAN PSYCHO’

Henry Bean’s review of Bret Easton Ellis’ “American Psycho” marks a sad day for The Times’ Book Review section.

First of all, Bean had better decide whether he wants to review books or grind old liberal political axes. The kind of depravity characterized by Ellis’ book thoroughly transcends all historical and social contexts; thus, attempting to hang the responsibility for a jerk like Bateman on the Reagan-Yuppie milieu is transparent.

Pedagogic Bean is at some pains to place “Psycho” in its correct literary perspective for us poor dumb readers with the obligatory references to Sade, Lautreamont, and Genet. Having read both Sade and Ellis’ little paperback defecation, I can assure you that the latter is in a class by itself.

Bean also patronizes: “But hatred of women being so prevalent in our world, it must surely be an appropriate subject for fiction.” This is just what you would expect a passive-aggressive personality to say.

What is to be said for a culture that markets such derangement for profit? One shudders to think of Ellis’ and Vintage’s contribution to social pathology, and their burning of the social furniture for a few more moments of financial warmth. Frankly, I hope that Ellis and his grubby little buddies at Knopf/Vintage choke on their power lunches at the Plaza.

Ellis is squarely in the tradition of many modern writers who try to substitute shock for storytelling. Fortunately, the human nervous system becomes saturated, then numb.

Bertrand Russell’s critique of sensation applies here: It is nondevelopmental. Ellis has nothing even remotely interesting for his main character to do.

What an asinine conclusion to Bean’s review: “ . . . (Ellis’) only fault is that he did not go far enough.” Come on, Hank, no one outdoes Ellis.

One would hope for something better from The Times than a rationalization of a Manhattan ghoul and his official panderers. Having largely exhausted the shock value of pornography, these amoral technicians from the Harvard Business School now set their sights on carnography.

It’s anything for a buck--and The Times should have said so.

NORM LOOPER

ESCONDIDO