Chuck Palahniuk

That old saying, how you always kill the one you love, well, look, it works both ways.

three ways to make napalm: One, you can mix equal parts of gasoline and frozen orange juice concentrate. Two, you can mix equal parts of gasoline and diet cola. Three, you can dissolve crumbled cat litter in gasoline until the mixture is thick.

We have sort of a triangle thing going here. I want Tyler. Tyler wants Marla. Marla wants me.

I don't want Marla, and Tyler doesn't want me around, not anymore. This isn't about love as in caring. This is about property as in ownership.

Without Marla, Tyler would have nothing.

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.

Too much estrogen, and you get bitch tits.

It's easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or die. On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.

This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and nothing can touch you.

At the time, she thought this was hitting bottom.

"When you’re twenty-four,” Marla says, "you have no idea how far you can really fall, but I was a fast learner.”

Disaster is a natural part of my evolution,” Tyler whispered, "toward tragedy and dissolution.”

"I’m breaking my attachment to physical power and possessions,” Tyler whispered, "because only through destroying myself can I discover the greater power of my spirit.”