IF YOU’RE GOING TO READ THIS, DON’T BOTHER.
It seemed that moment would last forever. That you had to risk your life to get love. You had to get right to the edge of death to ever be saved.
Art never comes from happiness.
Someday it will be a doctor saving people. Returning them to happiness. Or something better than happiness: peace.
And the kid is stupid enough to think a picture or a sculpture or a story could somehow replace anybody you love.
Because supposedly, those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.
These are the only few minutes I can be human.
Just for these minutes, I don’t feel lonely.
That if enough people loved you, you’d stop needing love.
How torture is torture and humiliation is humiliation only when you choose to suffer.
And it’s funny how when somebody saves you, the first thing you want to do is save other people. All other people. Everybody.
Then she turns on the television, some soap opera, you know, real people pretending to be fake people with made-up problems being watched by real people to forget their real problems.
The magic of sex is it’s acquisition without the burden of possessions.
Cover your gray.
Don’t go insane.
Eat less fats and sugars.
Do more sit-ups.
Don’t start forgetting stuff.
Trim the hair in your ears.
Moisturize. Every day.
Freeze time to stay in one place forever.
Do not get frigging old.
Dude, you can’t fool people into loving you.
Somebody saves your life, and they’ll love you forever.
You gain power by pretending to be weak. By contrast, you make people feel so strong. You save people by letting them save you.
People will jump through hoops if you just make them feel like a god.
That’s pretty much how we get through our own lives, watching television. Smoking crap. Self-medicating. Redirecting our own attention. Jacking off. Denial.
It’s funny how you never think about the women you’ve had. It’s always the ones who get away that you can’t forget.
“It’s pathetic,” Paige says, “how we can’t live with the things we can’t understand. How if we can’t explain something we’ll just deny it.”
I just want one person I can rescue. I want one person who needs me. Who can’t live without me. I want to be a hero, but
not just one time. Even if it means keeping her crippled, I want to be someone’s constant savior.
A baby’s not like having a dog. I mean, a baby lives a long time, dude.
It’s nice to see something more pathetic than I feel right now.
She set them up on a date with their subconscious because nothing is as good as you can imagine it. No one is as beautiful as she is in your head. Nothing is as exciting as your fantasy.
And because there’s no possibility of real disaster, real risk, we’re left with no chance for real salvation. Real elation. Real excitement. Joy. Discovery. Invention.
Without access to true chaos, we’ll never have true peace.
Unless everything can get worse, it won’t get any better.
The unreal is more powerful than the real.
She said when a boy and a girl dog copulate, the head of the boy’s penis swells and the vaginal muscles of the girl constrict. Even after sex, both dogs remain locked together, helpless and miserable for a brief period of time.
The Mommy said this same scenario described most marriages.
When you’re an addict, you can go without feeling anything except drunk or stoned or hungry. Still, when you compare this to other feelings, to sadness, anger, fear, worry, despair, and depression, well, an addiction no longer looks so bad.
What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.
Because once you’ve crossed some lines, you just keep crossing them.
I spent my life attacking everything because I was too afraid to risk creating anything ...
After so long living alone, it feels good to say “we.”
It’s jamais vu. The French opposite of deja vu where everybody is a stranger no matter how well you think you know them.
Around here, everybody’s arrested.
Because the only frontier left is the world of intangibles, ideas, stories, music, art.
It’s creepy, but here we are, the Pilgrims, the crackpots of our time, trying to establish our own alternate reality. To build a world out of rocks and chaos.
Почитала… (c) Choke. Palahniuk.