Chuck Palahniuk Quotes

Stars and shadows ain't good to see by.

Man lives in a world of surmise, of mystery, of uncertainties.

Questions are fiction, and answers are anything from more fiction to science-fiction.

Dreaming is to think by moonlight by the light of an inner moon.

There was a time when she had indulged in the hypothetical for hours a day, plotting the map that had led her here. But no life is a line, and hers was an uneven orbit around a dark star, a moth circling a dead bulb, searching for the light it once held.

When you look up. Do you see the blue sky of what might be? Or the darkness of what will never be? Do you see me?

Amid the moon and the stars, amid the clouds of the night, amid the hills which bordered on the sky with their magnificent silhouette of pointed cedars, amid the speckled patches of the moon, amid the temple buildings that emerged sparkling white out of the surrounding darkness - amid all this, I was intoxicated by the pellucid beauty of Uiko's treachery.

Even as a child, she had preferred night to day, had enjoyed sitting out in the yard after sunset, under the star-speckled sky listening to frogs and crickets. Darkness soothed. It softened the sharp edges of the world, toned down the too-harsh colors. With the coming of twilight, the sky seemed to recede; the universe expanded. The night was bigger than the day, and in its realm, life seemed to have more possibilities.

It is the absence of facts that frightens people: the gap you open, into which they pour their fears, fantasies, desires.

Instead, we linger over a luxury that costs nothing: Imagining what may be.

It is in the darkest skies that stars are best seen.

How thick the fog is. I can't see the road. All the people in the world could pass by and I would never know. I wish it was always that way. It's getting dark already. It will soon be night, thank goodness.

Hour of Stars (1920) The round silence of night, one note on the stave of the infinite. Ripe with lost poems, I step naked into the street. The blackness riddled by the singing of crickets: sound, that dead will-o'-the-wisp, that musical light perceived by the spirit. A thousand butterfly skeletons sleep within my walls. A wild crowd of young breezes over the river.

To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know.

If I sit and daydream, the images rush by like a succession of colored slides.

Round about what is, lies a whole mysterious world of might be, a psychological romance of possibilities and things that do not happen.

There is no light in earth or heaven but the cold light of stars; and the first watch of night is given to the red planet Mars.

Fantasy flows in where fact leaves a vacuum.

When someone doesn't show up, the people who wait sometimes tell stories about what might have happened and come to half believe the desertion, the abduction, the accident. Worry is a way to pretend that you have knowledge or control over what you don't--and it surprises me, even in myself, how much we prefer ugly scenarios to the pure unknown. Perhaps fantasy is what you fill up maps with rather than saying that they too contain the unknown.

...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one Pack up the moon & dismantle the sun.

I was sat at the bottom of the garden a week ago, smoking a reflective cheroot, thinking about this and that - mostly that, and I just happened to glance at the night sky and I marvelled at the millions of stars glistening like pieces of quicksilver thrown carelessly onto black velvet. In awe I watched the waxen moon ride across the zenith of the heavens like an amber chariot towards the void of infinite space wherein the tethered bolts of Jupiter and Mars hang forever in their orbital majesty; and as I looked at all this, I thought, 'I must put a roof on this lavatory.