Movie Quotes When you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep, and you’re never really awake. Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else. Welcome to Fight Club. The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club. The [...]
When you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep, and you’re never really awake.
Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You’re the same decaying organic matter as everything else.
Welcome to Fight Club. The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is: you DO NOT talk about Fight Club! Third rule of Fight Club: if someone yells “stop!”, goes limp, or taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule: only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule: one fight at a time, fellas. Sixth rule: the fights are bare knuckle. No shirt, no shoes, no weapons. Seventh rule: fights will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first time at Fight Club, you have to fight.
If you wake up at a different time in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?
You met me at a very strange time in my life.
My God, I haven’t been fucked like that since grade school.
I am Jack’s smirking revenge.
It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we are free to do anything.
The things you own end up owning you. It’s only after you lose everything that you’re free to do anything.
I’d fight William Shatner.
Now, a question of etiquette – as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?
Hey, you created me. I didn’t create some loser alter-ego to make myself feel better. Take some responsibility!
This is Bob. Bob had bitch tits.
Fuck Martha Stewart. Martha’s polishing the brass on the Titanic; it’s all going down, man.
I say never be complete. I say stop being perfect. I say let’s evolve. Let the chips fall where they may.
How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?
Advertising has us chasing 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 is a spiritual war. Our great depression is our lives.
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.
On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.
This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.
This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.
If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?
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.
And I wasn’t the only slave to my nesting instinct. The people I know who used to sit in the bathroom with pornography, now they sit in the bathroom with their IKEA furniture catalogue.
You buy furniture. You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple years you’re satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you’ve got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug. Then you’re trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you.
If you don’t know what you want, you end up with a lot you don’t.
May I never be complete. May I never be content. May I never be perfect.
I just don’t want to die without a few scars.
After a night in fight club, everything in the real world gets the volume turned down. Nothing can piss you off. Your word is law, and if other people break that law or question you, even that doesn’t piss you off.
It used to be enough that when I came home angry and knowing that my life wasn’t toeing my five-year plan, I could clean my condominium or detail my car. Someday I’d be dead without a scar and there would be a really nice condo and car.
Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer … maybe self-destruction is the answer.
The gyms you go to are crowded with guys trying to look like men, as if being a man means looking the way a sculptor or an art director says.
You aren’t alive anywhere like you’re alive at fight club…. Fight club isn’t about winning or losing fights. Fight club isn’t about words. You see a guy come to fight club for the first time, and his ass is a loaf of white bread. You see this same guy here six months later, and he looks carved out of wood. This guy trusts himself to handle anything. There’s grunting and noise at fight club like at the gym, but fight club isn’t about looking good. There’s hysterical shouting in tongues like at church, and when you wake up Sunday afternoon you feel saved.
At the time, my life just seemed too complete, and maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.
Nothing was solved when the fight was over, but nothing mattered.
The idea is to take some Joe on the street who’s never been in a fight and recruit him. Let him experience winning for the first time in his life. Get him to explode. Give him permission to beat the crap out of you. You can take it. If you win, you screwed up. What we have to do, people, is remind these guys what kind of power they still have.
For thousands of years, human beings had screwed up and trashed and crapped on this planet, and now history expected me to clean up after everyone. I have to wash out and flatten my soup cans. And account for every drop of used motor oil. And I have to foot the bill for nuclear waste and buried gasoline tanks and landfilled toxic sludge dumped a generation before I was born.
Recycling and speed limits are bullshit. They’re like someone who quits smoking on his deathbed.
You’re not how much money you’ve got in the bank. You’re not your job. You’re not your family, and you’re not who you tell yourself. You’re not your name. You’re not your problems. You’re not your age. You are not your hopes. You are the strongest and the smartest men who have ever lived… and these men are pumping gas and waiting tables.
All a gun does is focus an explosion in one direction. You have a class of young strong men and women, and they want to give their lives to something. Advertising has these people chasing cars and clothes they don’t need. Generations have been working in jobs they hate, just so they can buy what they don’t really need.
We have to show these men and women freedom by enslaving them, and show them courage by frightening them.
I am the all-singing, all-dancing crap of this world…. I am the toxic waste by-product of God’s creation.
Only in death are we no longer part of Project Mayhem.
I’ve met God across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and God asks me, “Why?” Why did I cause so much pain? Didn’t I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness? Can’t I see how we’re all manifestations of love? I look at God behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but God’s got this all wrong. We are not special. We are not crap or trash, either. We just are. We just are, and what happens just happens. And God says, “No, that’s not right.” Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can’t teach God anything.