Lullaby Chuck Palahniuk Quotes

Maybe you don't go to hell for the things you do. Maybe you go to hell for the things you don't do. The things you don't finish.

Are these things really better than the things I already have? Or am I just trained to be dissatisfied with what I have now?

Big Brother isn’t watching. He’s singing and dancing. He’s pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother’s busy holding your attention every moment you’re awake. He’s making sure you’re always distracted. He’s making sure you’re fully absorbed.

In a world where vows are worthless.Where making a pledge means nothing. Where promises are made to be broken, it would be nice to see words come back into power.

No matter how much you love someone, you still want to have you own way.

History is filled with brilliant people who wanted to fix things and just made them worse.

When you think about it, Johnny Appleseed was a fucking ecological terrorist.

Experts in ancient Greek culture say that people back then didn't see their thoughts as belonging to them. When ancient Greeks had a thought, it occurred to them as a god or goddess giving an order. Apollo was telling them to be brave. Athena was telling them to fall in love. Now people hear a commercial for sour cream potato chips and rush out to buy, but now they call this free will. At least the ancient Greeks were being honest.

The voice says, maybe you don't go to hell for the things you do. Maybe you go to hell for the things you don't do. The things you don't finish.

We're all of us haunted and haunting.

Anymore, no one's mind is their own.

Do you know why most survivors of the Holocaust are vegan? It's because they know what it's like to be treated like an animal.

There are worse things than finding your wife and child dead. You can watch the world do it. You can watch your wife get old and bored. You can watch your kids discover everything in the world you've tried to save them from. Drugs, divorce, conformity, disease. All the nice clean books, music, television. Distraction.

Doesn't reincarnation strike you as just another form of procrastination?

We're the culture that cried wolf.

Some people still think knowledge is power.

His computer password is "password.

Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can hurt like hell.

We come from a generation of people who need their TV or stereo playing all the time. These people so scared of silence. These soundaholics, these quietophobics.

Maybe humans are just the pet alligators that God flushed down the toilet.

These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead.

All you can do is hope for a pattern to emerge, and sometimes it never does. Still, with a plan, you only get the best you can imagine. I'd always hoped for something better than that.

The problem with every story is you tell it after the fact.

There are worse things you can do to the people you love than kill them. The regular way is just to watch the world do it. Just read the newspaper.

You turn up your music to hide the noise. Other people turn up their music to hide yours. You turn up yours again. Everyone buy s a bigger stereo system. This is the arms race of sound. You don't win with a lot of treble.

After long enough, everyone in the world will be you enemy.

Every generation wants to be the last. Every generation hates the next trend in music they can't understand. We hate to give up those reins of our culture. To find our own music playing in elevators. The ballad for our revolution, turned into background music for a television commercial. To find our generation's clothes and hair suddenly retro.

Imagine immortality, where even a marriage of fifty years would feel like a one-night stand. Imagine seeing trends and fashions blur past you. Imagine the world more crowded and desperate every century. Imagine changing religions, homes, diets, careers, until none of them have any real value.Imagine traveling the world until you're bored with every square inch. Imagine your emotions, your loves and hates and rivalries and victories, played out again and again until life is nothing more than a melo-dramatic soap opera. Until you regard the birth and death of other people with no more emotion than the wilted cut flowers you throw away.

This isn't about guilt or innocence, he says. The dinosaurs weren't morally good or bad, but they're all dead.

There are worse things you can do to people you love than kill them.

No one wants to admit we're addicted to music. That's just not possible. No one's addicted to music and television and radio. We just need more of it, more channels, a larger screen, more volume. We can't bear to be without it, but no, nobody's addicted. We could turn it off anytime we wanted. I fit a window frame into a brick wall. With a little brush, the size for fingernail polish, I glue it. The window is the size of a fingernail. The glue smells like hair spray. The smell tastes like oranges and gasoline.

Everything you see is based on fact of a event thats already happen, Even light only travels so fast.

You tell yourself that noise is what defines silence. Without noise, silence would not be golden. Noise is the exception. Think of deep outer space, the incredible cold and quiet where your wife and kid wait. Silence, not heaven, would be reward enough.

These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics.

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but watch out for those damn words.

You ever wonder when god's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce?

She's so thin she's either dying or rich.

No matter how bad things get, you can still walk away.

Stick and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you.

Do we have free will, or do the mass media and our culture control us, our desires and actions, from the moment we’re born?

You ever wonder if Adam and Eve were just the puppies God dumped because they wouldn't house-train?

You tell yourself that noise is what defines silence. Without noise, silence would not be golden. Noise is the exception.

I'm in love. So kill me.

You kill strangers deliberately so you don't accidentally kill the people you love.

Big Brother fills us all with the same crap. My guess is he was clever the same way everybody thinks they're clever. I tell her to type in 'password

The best way to waste your life is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch. Look for the details. Report. Don't participate. Let Big Brother do the singing and dancing for you. Be a reporter. Be a good witness. A grateful member of the audience.

If you ask me, reincarnation is just another way to procrastinate.

Imagine a plague you catch through your ears.

Do you realize that anything you can do in your lifetime will be meaningless a hundred years from now?" she says.

Her haunting me. The way a song stays in your head. The way you think life should be. How anything holds your attention. How your past goes with you into every day of your future.

It is a hundred-year-old witch book, bound in human skin and probably written in ancient cum...YOU lick it!

Clothing is dishonesty in its purest form.

Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He's pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother's busy holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He's making sure you're fully absorbed. He's making sure your imagination withers. Until it's as useful as your appendix. He's making sure your attention is always filled. And this being fed, it's worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what's in your mind. With everyone's imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.

Sticks and stones will break your bones, but now words can kill, too.

Anymore, no one's mind is their own. You can't concentrate. You can't think. There's always some noise worming in. Singers shouting. Dead people laughing. Actors crying. All those little doses of emotion.

People die', she says. 'People tear down houses. But furniture, fine, beautiful furniture, it just goes on and on, surviving everything.' She says, 'Armoires are the cockroaches of our culture.

Old George Orwell got it backward. Big Brother isn’t watching. He’s singing and dancing. He’s pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother’s busy holding your attention every moment you’re awake. He’s making sure you’re always distracted. He’s making sure you’re fully absorbed.

Don't do this. I love you. Don't shut me out.

Either a species learns to control its own population, or something like disease, famine, war, will take care of the issue.

So if reality is all a spell, and you don't really want what you think you want... If you have no free will. You don't really know what you know. You don't really love who you only think you love. What do you have left to live for?

Old George Orwell got it backward.Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He's pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother's busy holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He's making sure you're fully absorbed.He's making sure your imagination withers. Until it's as useful as your appendix. He's making sure your attention is always filled.And this being fed, it's worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what's in your mind. With everyone's imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.

At first, the new owner pretends he never looked at the living room floor.

With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what's in your mind. With everyone's imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.

The only biodiversity we’re going to have left is Coke versus Pepsi. We’re landscaping the whole world one stupid mistake at a time.

No one wants to admit we’re addicted to music. That’s just not possible. No one’s addicted to music and television and radio. We just need more of it, more channels, a larger screen, more volume. We can’t bear to be without it, but no, nobody’s addicted. We could turn it off anytime we wanted.

Something foreign is always living itself through you. Your whole life is the vehicle for something to come to earth An evil spirit. A theory. A marketing campaign. A political strategy. A religious doctrine.

Може би човек не отива в ада за онова, което е сторил, казва гласът в главата ми. Може би отиваш в ада заради това, което не си направил. За нещата, които не си довел докрай.

This isn't about love and hate," Helen says. It's about control. People don't sit down and read a poem to kill their child. They just want the child to sleep. They just want to dominate. No matter how much you love someone, you still want to have your own way. The masochist bullies the sadist into action. The most passive person is actually an aggressor.

The muffled thunder of dialogue comes through the walls, then a chorus of laughter. Then more thunder. Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950s. These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead.

This is how we must look to God.

Are these things really better than the things I already have? Or am I just trained to be dissatisfied with what I have now? Am I just under a spell that says nothing is ever good enough?

Anymore, no one's mind is their own. You can't concentrate. You can't think. There's always some noise worming in. Singers shouting. Dead people laughing. Actors crying. All these little doses of emotion. Someone's always spraying the air with their mood.

There are worse things you can do to the people you love than kill them.

The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up. The

Stick and stones may break your bones and words can kill you too

Power, money, food, sex, love. Can we ever get enough, or will getting some make us crave even more?

Imagine if Jesus chased you around, trying to catch you and save your soul.

Избиваме хора, за да спасим човешки животи. Горим книги, за да спасяваме други книги.

Do something only for money, and you're less likely to do it for free

Every generation wants to be the last. Every generation hates the next trend in music they can't understand. We hate to give up those reins of our culture. To find our own music playing in elevators. The ballad for our revolution, turned into background music for a television commercial. To find our generation's clothes and hair suddenly retro.

These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics. Old George Orwell got it backward. Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He's pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother's holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He's making sure you're fully absorbed... and this being fed, it's worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what's in your mind. With everyone's imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.

Някои твърдят, че знанието е власт.

You'd be surprised just how fast you can close the door on your past. Learn needlepoint. Make a stained-glass lamp.

And maybe you don’t go to hell for the things you do. Maybe you go to hell for the things you don’t do.

...it's nice to have one person who knows all your secrets

The best way to waste your life is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch.

Every place is the same place in the dark.

What I’m talking about is free will. Do we have it, or does God dictate and script everything we do and say and want? Do we have free will, or do the mass media and our culture control us, our desires and actions, from the moment we’re born?

It’s nothing perfect or complete, but this is what I’ve made of my life. Right or wrong, it follows no great master plan. All you can do is hope for a pattern to emerge, and sometimes it never does. Still, with a plan, you only get the best you can imagine. I’d always hoped for something better than that.

Centuries ago, sailors on long voyages used to leave a pair of pigs on every deserted island. Or they'd leave a pair of goats. Either way, on any future visit, the island would be a source of meat. These islands, they were pristine. These were home to breeds of birds with no natural predators. Breeds of birds that lived nowhere else on earth. The plants there, without enemies they evolved without thorns or poisons. Without predators and enemies, these islands, they were paradise. The sailors, the next time they visited these islands, the only things still there would be herds of goats or pigs. Oyster is telling this story. The sailors called this "seeding meat." Oyster says, "Does this remind you of anything? Maybe the ol' Adam and Eve story?" Looking out the car window, he says, "You ever wonder when God's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce?

Everywhere, words are mixing. Words and lyrics and dialogue are mixing in a soup that could trigger a chain reaction. Maybe acts of God are just the right combination of media junk thrown out into the air. The wrong words collide and call up an earthquake. The way rain dances called storms, the right combination of words might call down tornadoes. Too many advertising jingles commingling could be behind global warming. Too many television reruns bouncing around might cause hurricanes. Cancer. AIDS.

Някой винаги замърсява въздуха с настроението си.

The sound shivers through the walls, through the table, through the window frame, and into my finger. These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics. Old George Orwell got it backward. Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He's pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother's holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He's making sure you're fully absorbed... and this being fed, it's worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what's in your mind. With everyone's imagination atrophied, no one will ever be a threat to the world.

Centuries ago, sailors on long voyages used to leave a pair of pigs on every deserted island. Or they'd leave a pair of goats. Either way, on any future visit, the island would be a source of meat. These islands, they were pristine. These were home to breeds of birds with no natural predators. Breeds of birds that lived nowhere else on earth. The plants there, without enemies they evolved without thorns or poisons. Without predators and enemies, these islands, they were paradise. The sailors, the next time they visited these islands, the only things still there would be herds of goats or pigs. .... Does this remind you of anything? Maybe the ol' Adam and Eve story? .... You ever wonder when God's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce?

You must be kidding." She says, "Having the power of life and death isn't enough. You must wonder what other poems are in that book." Hitting me as fast as a hiccup, me resting my weight on my good foot, just staring at her, I say no. She says, "Maybe you can live forever." And I say no. And she says, "Maybe you can make anyone love you." No. And she says, "Maybe you can turn straw into gold." And I say no and turn on my heel. "Maybe you could bring about world peace," she says.

Old-time ranchers planted cheatgrass because it would green up fast in the spring and provide early forage for grazing cattle,” Oyster says, nodding his head at the world outside. This first patch of cheatgrass was in southern British Columbia, Canada, in 1889. But fire spreads it. Every year, it dries to gunpowder, and now land that used to burn every ten years, it burns every year. And the cheatgrass recovers fast. Cheatgrass loves fire. But the native plants, the sagebrush and desert phlox, they don’t. And every year it burns, there’s more cheatgrass and less anything else. And the deer and antelope that depended on those other plants are gone now. So are the rabbits. So are the hawks and owls that ate the rabbits. The mice starve, so the snakes that ate the mice starve. Today, cheatgrass dominates the inland deserts from Canada to Nevada, covering an area over twice the size of the state of Nebraska and spreading by thousands of acres per year. The big irony is, even cattle hate cheatgrass, Oyster says. So the cows, they eat the rare native bunch grasses. What’s left of them... “When you think about it from a native plant perspective,” Oyster says, “Johnny Appleseed was a fucking biological terrorist.” Johnny Appleseed, he says, might as well be handing out smallpox.

ჯორჯ ორუელი ცდებოდა. დიდი ძმა თვალყურს კი არ გადევნებს, ის ცეკვავს და მღერის, მას ბოცვრები ამოჰყავს ჯადოსნური ქუდიდან. ყოველთვის, როცა არ გძინავს, დიდი ძმა გართობს, ყურადღებას გიფანტავს, ყველაფერს აკეთებს იმისათვის, რომ მთლიანად იყო შთანთქმული და არ იფიქრო. ის ყველაფერს აკეთებს იმისათვის, რომ წარმოსახვის უნარი გაგიქროს, და იქამდე არ მოგეშვება, ვიდრე მას ბრმა ნაწლავივით უსარგებლოდ არ გიქცევს. დიდი ძმა თვალყურს ადევნებს, რომ შენი ყურადღება გამუდმებით რაღაცაზე იყოს მიჯაჭვული. და ეს უფრო უარესია, ვიდრე ის, რომ თვალს არ გაშორებდეს. უარესია, როცა ამდენი ხარახურით გავსებენ. როცა ადამიანს წარმოსახვა ატროფირებული აქვს, ის საფრთხეს აღარ წარმოადგენს: სუპერ! (გია ბერაძის თარგმანი)

Experts in ancient Greek culture say that people back then didn't see their thoughts as belonging to them. When they had a thought, it occurred to them as a god or goddess giving them an order. Apollo was telling them to be brave. Athena was telling them to be in love. Now people hear a commercial for sour cream potato chips and rush out to buy.

Шумът прониква през стените, предава се през масата на прозорчето и пръстите ми. Тия разсеяно-холици. Тия съсредоточено-фоби. Старият Джордж Оруел не е разбрал нищо. Големият брат не ни гледа. Той пее и танцува. Вади бели зайци от цилиндри. Големият брат се старае да привлече вниманието ти във всеки момент, докато си буден. За да не можеш да се съсредоточиш. За да бъдат сетивата ти винаги притъпени. Той се стреми да убие въображението ти. Докато закърнее като апендикса ти. Стреми се да отвлича вниманието ти. Това постоянно разсейване е по-лошо от непрекъснатото наблюдение. Когато сетивата ти са притъпени, никой не се интересува какво можеш да си мислиш. Когато въображението на всички е атрофирало, никой не може да бъде заплаха за властта.

Това наричаме цивилизация. Хора, които никога не биха изхвърлили боклука си през прозореца на колата, те подминават с надуто до дупка радио. Хора, които никога не биха пушили в пълен ресторант, крещят до прегракване по мобилните си телефони. Крещят си един на друг през масите. Хора, които никога не биха пръскали с инсектициди или хербициди, замърсяват квартала с музика от шотландски гайди. С китайска опера. С кънтри. Сред природата е нормално да чуеш птича песен. Не е нормално да чуеш Патси Клайн. На улицата шумът от колите е достатъчно дразнещ. Ако прибавиш Концерт за пиано в си минор на Шопен, положението не се подобрява. Пускаш силна музика, за да не слушаш шума от улицата. Съседите надуват уредбата си, за да не слушат твоята. Ти усилваш своята. Всеки търси да си купи по-голяма уредба. Започва надпревара за по-силен шум. Не можеш да победиш с мелодичност. Никой не обръща внимание на качеството. Силата на звука е всичко. Никой не се интересува от музиката. Всеки иска да надвика другите. Стъпкваш конкуренцията с мощни баси. Прозорците се тресат. Зарязваш мелодията и крещиш с пълен глас текста. Вкарваш повече обидни думи и натъртваш на всяка ругатня. Ти си господар на шума. Това е борба за власт.