Quotes from Chuck Palahniuk

We're all mis­er­able to­geth­er.

The big wet face settles down on top of my head, and I am lost inside. This is when I'd cry. Crying is right at hand in the smothering dark, closed inside someone else, when you see how everything you can ever accomplish will end up as trash.

You realize it's not wooden stakes that kill vampires. It's all the emotional baggage and letdowns they have to carry around for century after century.

This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom. If I didn't say anything, people in a group assumed the worst. They cried harder. I cried harder. Look up into the stars and you're gone.

Because the only frontier left is the world of intangibles, ideas, stories, music, art. Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it.

The ice-cold way death can hit you in the noontime of a sunny day just when you'd never expect.

Nobody cared if he lived or died, and the feeling was fucking mutual.

When you can just crumble up and throw your past in the trash can, then we'll figure out who you're going to be.

Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. My taste for power continues to grow, as does my ability to accrue it.

People in the outside world said something stupid with their every breath, and when they didn't talk their radios filled the gap with the copied voices of people singing the same songs over and over.

Our purest joy comes when people we envy get hurt. That most genuine form of joy. The joy you feel when a limousine turns the wrong way down a one-way street.

Somewhere outside the hospital, in a motel room full of bloody towels with his tool box of knives and needles, or driving down the highway to his next victim, or kneeling over a dog, drugged and cut up in a dirty bathtub, is the man a million dogs must hate.

His Highness looks at Denny and says, "Those glasses you're wearing, do you need them?" "Only to see with," Denny says.

Generaciones y generaciones han desempeñado trabajos que odiaban para poder comprar cosas que en realidad no necesitan.

Artificial over-stimulation seemed like the perfect way to stifle a generation of young people who wanted more and more from a world where less and less was available. Whether the victims were men or women, arousal addiction seemed to have become the new normal.

Noth­ing shows you the straight line from here to death like a list

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.

There are worse things you can do to the people you love than kill them.

Everything is nothing by itself.

Because we love our pain. We love our drama. But we will never, ever admit that.

This makeover would make piercings and tattoos and brandings look so lame, all those little fashion revolts so safe that they themselves only become fashionable. Those little paper tiger attempts to reject looking good that only end up reinforcing it.

What makes the earth feel like Hell is our expectation that it ought to feel like Heaven.

Cuando nos morimos, esas son las historias que siguen en nuestro labios. Las historias que solamente les contamos a desconocidos, en algún lugar íntimo de la celda acolchada de la medianoche. Esas historias importantes que nos pasamos años ensayando mentalmente pero que nunca contamos. Esas historias son fantasmas, que traen a la gente de vuelta de entre los muertos. Solamente un momento. De visita. Cada historia es un fantasma.

How is it you can keep mutating and still be the same deadly virus?