At the time, my life just seemed too complete, and maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.
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Chuck Palahniuk
Charles Michael "Chuck" Palahniuk (/ˈpɔːlənɪk/) (born February 21, 1962) is an American novelist and freelance journalist, who describes his work as "transgressional" fiction. He is the author of the award-winning novel Fight Club, which also was made into an acclaimed film of the same name. 2Early life Palahniuk was born in Pasco, Washington, the son of Carol Adele (née Tallent) and Fred Palahniuk. He has French, Russian, and Ukrainian ancestry. His paternal grandfather was Ukrainian and migrated to New York from Canada in 1907. Palahniuk grew up living in a mobile home in Burbank, Washington. His parents separated when he was 14 and subsequently divorced, often leaving him and his three siblings to live with their maternal grandparents at their cattle ranch in Eastern Washington. Palahniuk acknowledged in a 2007 interview that he is a distant nephew of actor Jack Palance, and that his family had talked of distant relations with Palance. In his 20s, Palahniuk attended the University of Oregon School of Journalism, graduating in 1986. While attending college, he worked as an intern for National Public Radio member station KLCC in Eugene, Orego
I don't want to die without any scars.
Sometimes your best way to deal with shit...is not to hold yourself as such a precious little prize.
All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring.
I just want one person I can rescue and I want one person who needs me. Who can't live without me. I want to be a hero, but not just one time.
The only thing I know is everything you love will die.
Find what you’re afraid of most and go live there.
I hate how I don't feel real enough unless people are watching.
If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character... Would you slow down? Or speed up?
People don't want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.
If you watch close, history does nothing but repeat itself. What we call chaos is just patterns we haven't recognized. What we call random is just patterns we can't decipher. what we can't understand we call nonsense. What we can't read we call gibberish. There is no free will. There are no…
Nothing was solved when the fight was over, but nothing mattered.
Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer...Maybe self-destruction is the answer.
Recycling and speed-limits are bullshit. They’re like someone who quits smoking on his deathbed.
I was lost inside oblivion, dark and silent and complete...This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.
I just don't want to die without a few scars.