Three minutes. This is it, ground zero. Would you like to say anything to mark the occasion?
I want you to hit me as hard as you can.
Man, you’ve got some fucked up friends! Limber, though.
We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.
How much can you possibly know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?
Now, a question of etiquette: as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?
Now, why do guys like you and me know what a duvet is? Is it essential to our survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word? No. What are we, then?
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 your Strinne green stripe patterns. I say, never be complete. I say, stop being perfect. I say, let’s evolve, and let the chips fall where they may.
The things you own, they end up owning you.
Reject the basic assumption of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions!
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. We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
Self-improvement is masturbation, and self-destruction …
Even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart.
Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.
Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God?
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! If 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 everything that we’re free to do anything.
Man, I see in Fight Club the strongest and smartest men who’ve ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see it squandered. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables – slaves with white collars. 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, man. 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. 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.
In the world I see … you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You’ll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You’ll climb the wrist-thick kudzu 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 car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.
Hi. You’re going to call off your rigorous investigation. You’re going to publicly state that there is no underground group. Or these guys are going to take your balls. We’re going to send one to the New York Times, one to the L.A. Times press-release-style. Look, the people you are after are the people you depend on. We cook your meals, we haul your trash, we connect your calls, we drive your ambulances, we guard you while you sleep. Do not fuck with us.
You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else, and we are all a part of the same compost heap.
The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes, like the first monkey shot into space. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing.
Stop trying to control everything and just let go.
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: someone yells “stop”, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule: only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule: one fight at a time, fellas. Sixth rule: no shirts, no shoes. Seventh rule: fights will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.
I look like you want to look, I fuck like you want to fuck, I am smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not.
Oh, heavens, no. Not the green one, anything but the green one. [After the green wire is cut] I asked you not to do that!
Ok. You are now firing a gun at your imaginary friend near 400 gallons of nitroglycerin!
What’s that smell?
Ah. Flashback humor.
Just ask, man.
Is it a problem for you to ask?
Did you know that urine is sterile? You can drink it.
This, is chemical burn.
Three minutes. This is it, ground zero. Would you like to say anything to mark the occasion?
I want you to hit me as hard as you can.
Man, you’ve got some fucked up friends! Limber, though.
We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.
How much can you possibly know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?
Now, a question of etiquette: as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?
Now, why do guys like you and me know what a duvet is? Is it essential to our survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word? No. What are we, then?
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 your Strinne green stripe patterns. I say, never be complete. I say, stop being perfect. I say, let’s evolve, and let the chips fall where they may.
The things you own, they end up owning you.
Reject the basic assumption of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions!
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. We are the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
Self-improvement is masturbation, and self-destruction …
Even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart.
Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken.
Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God?
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! If 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 everything that we’re free to do anything.
Man, I see in Fight Club the strongest and smartest men who’ve ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see it squandered. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables – slaves with white collars. 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, man. 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. 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.
In the world I see … you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You’ll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You’ll climb the wrist-thick kudzu 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 car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.
Hi. You’re going to call off your rigorous investigation. You’re going to publicly state that there is no underground group. Or these guys are going to take your balls. We’re going to send one to the New York Times, one to the L.A. Times press-release-style. Look, the people you are after are the people you depend on. We cook your meals, we haul your trash, we connect your calls, we drive your ambulances, we guard you while you sleep. Do not fuck with us.
You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else, and we are all a part of the same compost heap.
The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes, like the first monkey shot into space. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing.
Stop trying to control everything and just let go.
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: someone yells “stop”, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule: only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule: one fight at a time, fellas. Sixth rule: no shirts, no shoes. Seventh rule: fights will go on as long as they have to. And the eighth and final rule: if this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.
I look like you want to look, I fuck like you want to fuck, I am smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not.
Oh, heavens, no. Not the green one, anything but the green one. [After the green wire is cut] I asked you not to do that!
Ok. You are now firing a gun at your imaginary friend near 400 gallons of nitroglycerin!
What’s that smell?
Ah. Flashback humor.
Just ask, man.
Is it a problem for you to ask?
Did you know that urine is sterile? You can drink it.
This, is chemical burn.
 "TylerDurden153")