Fight Club

Fight Club

from the book:

Fight club is not football on television. You aren’t watching a bunch of men you don’t know halfway around the world beating on each other live by satellite with a two-minute delay, commercials pitching beer every ten minutes, and a pause now for station identification. After you’ve been to fight club, watching football on television is watching pornography when you could be having great sex. 

According to my boss, there are fewer and fewer gentlemen in business and more thugs.


I tell Tyler, Marla Singer doesn’t need a lover, she needs a case worker.


Until today, it really pissed me off that I’d become this totally centered Zen Master and nobody had noticed.

The blood, is it mine?
Yeah, I say. Some of it.
This is a wrong answer.


She doesn’t say a thing about her collagen trust fund.  

I said to the medical student, you must not see a lot of birthmarks around here.


Even a week after fight club, you’ve got no problem driving inside the speed limit. Maybe you’ve been passing black shit, internal injuries, for two days, but you are so cool. Other cars drive around you. Cars tailgate. You get the finger from other drivers. Total strangers hate you. It’s absolutely nothing personal. After fight club, you’re so relaxed, you just cannot care. You don’t even turn the radio on.


“What you have to consider,” he says, “is the possibility that God doesn’t like you. Could be, God hates us. This is not the worst thing that can happen.”
How Tyler saw it was that getting God’s attention for being bad was better than getting no attention at all. Maybe because God’s hate is better than His indifference.

My wish right now is for me to die. I am nothing in the world compared to Tyler.
I am helpless.
I am stupid, and all I do is want and need things.
My tiny life. My little shit job. My Swedish furniture. I never, no, never told anyone this, but before I met Tyler, I was planning to buy a dog and name it “Entourage.”

The tears were really coming now, and one fat stripe rolled along the barrel of the gun and down the loop around the trigger to burst flat against my index finger. Raymond Hessel closed both eyes so I pressed the gun hard against his temple so he would always feel it pressing right there and I was beside him and this was his life and he could be dead at any moment.
This wasn’t a cheap gun, and I wondered if salt might fuck it up.

I call Marla from my Seattle motel room to ask if we’ve ever done it.
   You know.
   Long distance, Marla says, “What?”
   Slept together.
   “What!”
   Have I ever, you know, had sex with her?
   “Christ!”
   Well?
   “Well?” she says.
   Have we ever had sex?
   “You are such a piece of shit.”
   Have we had sex?
   “I could kill you!”
   Is that a yes or a no?
“I knew this would happen,” Marla says. “You’re such a flake. You love me. You ignore me. You save my life, then you cook my mother into soap.” 

You sit on the shag carpet at opposite sides of the meditation circle and try to summon up your power animal while Marla glares at you with her black eye. You close your eyes and meditate to the palace of the seven doors, and you can still feel Marla’s glare. You cradle your inner child.
Marla glares.
Then it’s time to hug.
Open your eyes.
We should all choose a partner.
Marla crosses the room in three quick steps and slaps me hard across the face.
Share yourself completely.

from the movie:

[after vigorous sex with Tyler Durden]
Marla Singer: My God. I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.




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