Quote

Tyler lies back and asks, If Marilyn Monroe were alive right now, what would she be doing? I say, goodnight. The headliner hangs down in shreds from the ceiling and Tyler says, Clawing at the lid of her coffin.

Chuck Palahniuk

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Chuck Palahniuk
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: February 21
Essayist
Journalist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Pasco
Washington
Charles Michael Chuck Palahniuk
Says
Coffin
Alive
Monroe
Asks
Marilyn
Lying
Coffins
Headliner
Back
Hangs
Clawing
Right
Ceiling
Shreds
Would
Ceilings
Tyler
Lies
Goodnight

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And it [Fight Club novel] was written so general that my father thought I was writing about his father, and my boss thought I was writing about his boss. People really put themselves, you know, in the shoes of the narrator.
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We just had a near-life experience!
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And the seventh rule is if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight.
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You know how both life and porno movies end. The only difference is life starts with the orgasm.
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These flowers will be rotten in a couple hours. Birds will crap on them. The smoke here will make them stink, and tomorrow a bulldozer will probably run over them, but for right now they are so beautiful.
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How folks lay claim to a loved one is they give you a name of their own. They figure to label you as their property.
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Books can create a depth of story, a background of information and ideas, that televison and movies can't. Sure, the television shows may shock, but only on a superficial level. They'd never risk market share to really explore the issues. They report, but don't analyze or suggest any new ways for living our lives.
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No mat­ter how much I try and hide this, bit by bit, I start to fall apart.
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We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are. Sane or insane. Saints or sex addicts. Heroes or victims. Letting history tell us how good or bad we are. Letting our past decide our future. Or we can decide for ourselves. And maybe it's our job to invent something better.
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It's pathetic how we can't live with the things we can't understand. How we need everything labeled and explained and deconstructed.
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No, none of us seem so very real. We're only supporting characters in the lives of each other. Any real truth, any precious fact will always be lost in a mountain of shattered make-believe.
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Folks build a reputation by attacking you while you’re alive - or praising you after you ain’t.
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Everyone's in their own personal coma.
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And it's funny how when somebody saves you, the first thing you want to do is save other people. All other people. Everybody. The kid never knew the man's name. But he never forgot that smile. Hero isn't the first word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.
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You grow up to become living proof of your parents' limitations. Their less-than masterpiece.
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Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known.
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I am the all-singing, all-dancing crap of this world.... I am the toxic waste by-product of God's creation.
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The worst part of writing fiction is the fear of wasting your life behind a keyboard. The idea that, dying, you'll realize you only lived on paper. Your only adventures were make-believe, and while the world fought and kissed, you sat in some dark room masturbating and making money.
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Did perpetual happiness in the Garden of Eden maybe get so boring that eating the apple was justified?
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To hell with housework, our top priority has always been between our legs.
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