That old saying,how you always hurt the one you love? Well,it works both ways.
Between those huge,sweating tits that hung enormous the way you’d think of god’s as big.
Echo:I could’t sleep. I could’t sleep. Everyting’s far way. With insomnia, nothing’s real. Everyting’s a copy of a copy of a copy.
We used to read pornography. Now it was the horchow collection.
Lost in oblivion,dark and silent and complete. I found freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.
I wasn’t really dying. I wasn’t host to cancer or parasites. I was the warm little center. That the life of this world crowded around.
Every evening, I died and every evening, I was born again. Resurrected.
When you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep and you’re never really awake.
If I did have a tumor…I’d name it Marla. Marla…the little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can’t.
Marla’s philosophy of life was that she might die at any moment. The tragedy, she said, was that she didn’t.
This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.
If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?
Why do guys like you and I know what a duvet is? Is this essential to our survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of the world? No. What are we, then? We’re consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty…these things don’t concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy’s name on my underwear. Rogaine, viagra, olestra.
Fuck Martha Stewart. Martha’s polishing the brass on the Titanic. It’s all going down, man. So fuck off with your sofa units and strinne green stripe patterns. I say, never be complete. I say, stop being perfect. I say, let’s evolve. Let the chips fall where they may.
The things you own end up owning you.你已经被物质奴役了。
I should’ve been looking for a new condo. I should’ve been haggling with my insurance company. I should’ve been upset about my nice, neat flaming little shit. But I wasn’t.
It was right in everyone’s face. Tyler and I just made it visible. It was on the tip of everyone’s tongue. Tyler and I just gave it a name.
You weren’t alive anywhere like you were there. But fight club only exists in the hours between when fight club starts and when fight club ends. Even if I could tell someone they had a good fight, I wouldn’t be talking to the same man. Who you were in fight club, is not who you were in the rest of the world. The guy who came to fight club for the first time, his ass was a wad of cookie dough. After a few weeks, he was carved out of wood.
Self-improvement is masturbation. And self-destruction.
Sticking feathers up your butt does make you a chicken.插上羽毛， 不等于你就是老鹰。
Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing.
You have to consider the possibility that god does not like you. He never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen. We don’t need him. Fuck damnation,man. Fuck redemption. We are god’s unwanted children? So be it!
First you have to give up. First you have to know, not fear, know that someday you’re gonna die. It’s only after we’ve lost everyting that we’re free to do anyting.
Advertising has its taste in cars and clothes. Working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don’t need. We’re the middle children of history. No purpose or place. We have no great war, no great depression. Our great war’s a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives. We’ve all been raised on television to believe that one day we’d all be millionaires and movie gods and rock stars. But we won’t. We’re slowly learning that fact. And we’re very, very pissed off.
No fear. No distractions. The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide.
You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else. We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. We are all part of the same compost heap.
You need to forget about what you know. That’s your problem. Forget about what you think you know about life, about friendship, and especially about you and me.
Hitting bottom isn’t a weekend retreat. It’s not a goddamn seminar. Stop trying to control everything and just let go.
In your world I see, you’re stalking elk through the damp canyon forest, around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You’ll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You’ll climb the vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you’ll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty carpool lane of some abandoned superhighway.
You met me at a very strange time in my life.