Quotes from Chuck Palahniuk

Maybe this is why Misty loved him. Loved you. Because you believed in her so much more than she did. You expected more from her than she did from herself.

this is the upside of already being eternally damned

I figure if Eve could get us into this mess, I could get us out. After all, God really likes to see a go-getter.

I am trash and shit and crazy to you and this whole fucking world. You don't care where I live or how I feel, or what I eat or how I feed my kids or how I pay the doctor if I get sick, and yes I am stupid ad bored and weak, but I am still your responsibility.

Some stories, she'd say, the more you tell them, the faster you use them up. Those kind, the drama burns off, and every version, they sound more silly and flat. The other kind of story, it uses you up. The more you tell it, the stronger it gets. Those kind of stories only remind you how stupid you were. Are. Will always be.

She's so thin she's either dying or rich.

The best way to waste your life is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch. Look for the details. Report. Don't participate. Let Big Brother do the singing and dancing for you. Be a reporter. Be a good witness. A grateful member of the audience.

Maybe the truth is I really want to like you instead.

I'm an invisible monster. I'm incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse.

Everybody's trying to make every minute of the present last forever. Preserve every second.

A guy's calling to say he's failing algebra II. Just as a point of practice, I say, Kill yourself. A woman calls and says her kids won't behave. Without missing a beat, I tell her, Kill yourself. A man calls to say his car won't start. Kill yourself. A woman calls to ask what time the late movie starts. Kill yourself. She asks, Isn't this 555-1327? Is this the Moorehouse CinePlex? I say, Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

Maybe people have to really suffer before they can risk doing what they love.

We want you, not your money. As long as you're at fight club, you're not how much money you've got in the bank. You're not your job. You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself. You're not your name. You're not your problems. You're not your age. You are not your hopes. You will not be saved. We are all going to die, someday.

As an artist you organize your life so that you get a chance to paint, a window of time, but that's no guarantee you'll create anything worth all your effort. You're always haunt by the idea you're wasting your life.

Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.

Daytime television, you can tell who's watching by the three kinds of commercials. Either it's clinics for drying out drunks. Or it's law firms who want to settle injury suits. Or it's schools offering mail-order vocational degrees to make you a bookkeeper. A private detective. Or a locksmith. If you're watching daytime television, this is your new demographic. You're a drunk. Or a cripple. Or an idiot.

Her voice makes me think of her mouth makes me think of her breath makes me think of her breasts.

My parents meant well, but the road to Hell is paved with publicity stunts.

It's not true that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. At least, not all of it. Some of your life might flash. Other portions of your life it might take you years and years to recall. That, I think, is the function of Hell: It's a place of remembering. Beyond that, the purpose of Hell is not so much to forget the details of our lives as it is to forgive them.

The greatest weapon any warrior can carry into battle is absolute certainty of her eternal soul.

With my eyes closed, I ask if she knows how this will all turn out. Long-term or short-term? she asks. Both. Long-term, she says, we're all going to die. Then our bodies will rot. No surprise there. Short-term, we're going to live happily ever after. Really? Really, she says. So don't sweat it.

If you ask me, most people have children just as their own enthusiasm about life begins to wane.

What stops you here is what stops your entire life. The air will always be too filled with something. Your body too sore or tired. Your father too drunk. Your wife too cold. You will always have some excuse not to live your life.

Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach God anything.