Chuck Palahniuk Quotes

I thought that Mr. Clutter was a very nice gentleman. I thought so right up to the moment that I cut his throat.

A man who is not with a woman is a dead man.

I read a lot about serial killers.

There are two kinds of serial killers as far as the victim is concerned: the kind that you don't see before they pounce on you and the kind you see and don't expect to pounce on you.

To be lonely is to feel unwanted and unloved, and therefor unloveable. Loneliness is a taste of death. No wonder some people who are desperately lonely lose themselves in mental illness or violence to forget the inner pain.

If you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out!

Besides, who wants to read about success, anyway? Successful serial murderers, maybe.

Murder offers the promise of vast relief. It is never unsexual.

Let's say you have an ax. Just a cheap one, from Home Depot. On one bitter winter day, you use said ax to behead a man. Don't worry, the man was already dead. Or maybe you should worry, because you're the one who shot him.

Maybe the last human being on Earth won't die of starvation or exposure or as a meal of wild animals. Maybe the last one to die will be killed by the last one alive.

I hate the murderer, love him murdered.

I am alone on this road strewn with bones and bordered by ruins! Angels have their brothers, and demons have their infernal companions. Yet I have but the sound of my scythe when it harvests, my whistling arrows, my galloping horse. Always the sound of the same wave eating away at the world

Crime too is a form of solitude, even if one thousand get together to commit it. And it is right for me to die alone, after having lived and killed alone.

I'm into, oh murders and executions mostly. It depends.

A room? A nice room? A beautiful room? A beautiful room with bath? Swing high, swing low, swing to and fro...This happened and that happened... And then the days came and I was alone.

Death is loneliness in its purest form.

It's an awful thing to grow old by yourself. My wife hasn't had a birthday in seven years.

Trapped for days, years, centuries maybe. Dead, but not allowed to die. Alive, but as good as dead. So alone that anyone, anything no matter how loathsome would be welcome.

From birth to death we are alone.

He kills people. Now I'm no expert, but doesn't that make you a bad person?" Jamie glared at Nick. "You've killed a lot more people than he has. What does that make you?" "Not a person," Nick murmured, not sounding particularly interested. "Surely you remember.

A murderer is only an extroverted suicide.

Men love death. In everything they make, they hollow out a central place for death, let its rancid smell contaminate every dimension of whatever still survives. Men especially love murder. In art they celebrate it, and in life they commit it. They embrace murder as if life without it would be devoid of passion, meaning, and action, as if murder were solace, stilling their sobs as they mourn the emptiness and alienation of their lives.

The world seems a lonesome place when mother has passed away and only memories of her are left.

My oldest brother was stabbed thirty to forty times and strangled to death with his own belt when I was eight years old. Much of my life has been pockmarked with violence. So I had a natural interest in the topic, along with a strong home-field advantage.

Howdy. I'm gonna separate your head from your shoulders. Hope you don't mind none.