Chuck Palahniuk

"With enough soap," Tyler says, "you could blow up the whole world."

Tyler says I'm nowhere near hitting bottom, yet. And if I don't fall all the way, I can't be saved. Jesus did it with his crucifixion thing. I shouldn't just abandon money and property and knowledge. This isn't a weekend retreat. I should run from self-improvement, and I should be running toward disaster. I can't just play it safe anymore.

This isn't a seminar.

"Funerals are nothing compared to this," Marla says. "Funerals are all abstract ceremony. Here, you have the real experience of death."

Fight club isn't about winning or losing fights. Fight club isn't about words.

There's hysterical shouting in tongues like at church, and when you wake up Sunday afternoon you feel saved.

This is why I loved the support groups so much, if people thought you were dying, they gave you their full attention.

If this might be the last time they saw you, they really saw you. Everything else about their checkbook balance and radio songs and messy hair went out the window.

You had their full attention.

People listened instead of just waiting for their turn to speak.

And when they spoke, they weren't telling you a story. When the two of you talked, you were building something, and afterward you were both different than before.

You do the little job you're trained to do.

Pull a lever.

Push a button.

You don't understand any of it, and then you just die.

Worker bees can leave

Even drones can fly away

The queen is their slave

Tyler had nothing to lose.

Tyler was the pawn of the world, everybody's trash.

One minute was enough, Tyler said, a person had to work hard for it, but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.

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.

What you see at fight club is a generation of men raised by women.