Quotes from Chuck Palahniuk

No­body wants to wor­ship you if you have the same prob­lems, the same bad breath and messy hair and hang­nails, as a reg­ular per­son. You have to be ev­ery­thing reg­ular peo­ple aren't. Where they fail, you have to go all the way. Be what peo­ple are too afraid to be. Be­come whom they ad­mire.

Each romance, the type of self-destructive gesture Hedda Hopper would call marry-kiri.Instead of plunging a sword into one's stomach, you repeatedly throw yourself on the most inappropriate erect penis.

do not write to be liked. Write to be remembered.

Where I'm is one of those stair climbing machines the agent has installed. You climb and climb forever and never get off the ground. You're trapped in your hotel room. It's the mystical sweat love lodge experience of our time, the only sort of Indian vision quest we can schedule into our daily planner. Our StairMaster to Heaven.

I loathe the kind of game-show context in which so much of our lives is determined: proving my memory and mental skills in a sedentary situation under the pressure of limited time.

Slang is the writer's palette of colors.

We are all self-composting.

I knew this would happen, Marla says. You're such a flake. You love me. You ignore me. You save my life, then you cook my mother into soap.

A woman calls from Seaview to say her linen closet is missing. Last September, her house had six bedrooms, two linen closets. She's sure of it. Now she's only got one. She comes to open her beach house for the summer. She drives out from the city with the kids and the nanny and the dog, and here they are with all heir luggage, and their towels are gone. Disappeared. Poof. Bermuda triangulated.

Jump to another weird sick disappointment just coming over the horizon.

What I need is a new story about who I am. What I need to do is fuck up so bad I can't save myself.

This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and nothing can touch you.

Ev­ery­thing they be­lieved in turned out to be wrong.

Shining anal queen of perfection, she says, "Fuck.

You could choke on the silence.

And if Christ had died from a barbiturate overdose, alone on the bathroom floor, would he be in heaven?

Overrun with Goths wearing sandals and soaking lentils at home, the future I wanted is gone. The future I was promised. Everything I expected. The way everything was supposed to turn out. Happiness and peace and love and comfort.

After you've been to fight club, watching football on television is watching pornography when you could be having great sex.

They'd told him he had talent. That word was heroin to the young. Talent

It's nothing perfect or complete, but this is what I've made of my life. Right or wrong, it follows no great master plan. All you can do is hope for a pattern to emerge, and sometimes it never does. Still, with a plan, you only get the best you can imagine. I'd always hoped for something better than that.

The truth is, being ugly isn't the thrill you'd think, but it can be an oportunity for something better than I ever imagined. The truth is I'm sorry.

I won­der if run­ning is just an­oth­er fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a fix to a prob­lem I can't re­mem­ber.

Ten years ago, he was the hard­work­ing salt of the earth. All he want­ed was to go to Heav­en. Sit­ting here to­day, ev­ery­thing that he worked for in the world is lost. All his ex­ter­nal rules and con­trols are gone.

By bitching and bitching and bitching, they could exhaust the drama of their own horror stories. Grow bored. Only then could they accept a new story for their lives. Move forward.