In the summer of 1991 I was ten, and my father had bought a copy of American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis. He sat one Saturday afternoon in the living room in his armchair, reading it. I remember this vividly for two reasons: one was that I was both fascinated and terrified by the cover art, which depicted what looked like a man wearing a mask made of flesh; and the second was a typically understated warning from my father, who looked dourly at me over his glasses and the top of the book at once, saying, ‘You can never, ever read this book, okay?’

‘Okay.’