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We read about secret lives that people have on the Internet, or alternate lives of a serial killer where the whole family didn’t know that their dad or their brother or their child was that. There are all the things in our heart that no one really knows, and I thought that that was interesting territory to explore.
When I was a kid, I remember the first Batman, the first Superman comic books when they came out, thinking how great that was and wouldn’t it be great to see a movie like that. They did some cheap serials, but they’re not the same as today. But I think younger audiences would like to see a real hero also.
I am a person who feels guilty for crimes I have not committed, or have not committed in years. The police search the train station for a serial rapist and I cover my face with a newspaper, wondering if maybe I did it in my sleep. The last thing I stole was an eight-track tape, but to this day I’m unable to enter a store without feeling like a shoplifter. It’s all the anxiety with none of the free stuff.
It has been the sad experience of many that much of the best and the most beautiful is lost to those whose mental food consists exclusively of the sensational paper or the cheap novel, or of that frothy mass of waste material which is thrown up like scum upon the molten metal of life–novelettes, serials, and fragments of a type which neither teach the ignorant, nor strengthen the weak, nor develop the immature.
In 1985, the top five percent of the households – the wealthiest five percent – had net worth of $8 trillion – which is a lot. Today, after serial bubble after serial bubble, the top five per cent have net worth of $40 trillion. The top five percent have gained more wealth than the whole human race had created prior to 1980.
I also remember when I watched Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer  at, like, age 15. That scared the crap out of me. Because it didn’t operate inside the usual conventions of the horror genre in the way that I could accept. I can accept horny teenager counselors being murdered at camp. But I couldn’t accept the derangement of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, which was that anyone could be murdered at any moment – whole families, with no build-up music and no meaning. It terrified me.