books
"For thousands of years, human beings had screwed up and trashed and crapped on this planet, and now history expected me to clean up after everyone. I have
to wash out and flatten my soup cans. And account for every drop of used motor oil.
And I have to foot the bill for nuclear waste and buried gasoline tanks and landfilled toxic sludge dumped a generation before I was born.
I wanted to breathe smoke.
Birds and deer are a silly luxury, and all the fish should be floating.
I wanted to burn the Louvre. I'd do the Elgin Marbles with a sledgehammer and wipe my ass with the Mona Lisa. This is my world now and those ancient
people are dead.
We wanted to blast the world free of history.
We were eating breakfast in the house on Paper Street, and Tyler said, picture yourself planting radishes and seed potatoes on the fifteenth green of a
forgotten golf course.
You'll hunt elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center, and dig clams next to the skeleton of the Space Needle leaning at a
forty-five-degree angle. We'll paint the skyscrapers with huge totem faces and goblin tikis, and every evening what's left of mankind will retreat to empty zoos and
lock itself in cages as protection aganst bears and big cats and wolves that pace and watch us from outside the cage bars at night.
"Recycling and speed limits are bullshit," Tyler said. "They're like someone who quits smoking on his deathbed."
It's Project Mayhem that's going to save the world. A cultural ice age.
Like fight club does with clerks and box boys, Project Mayhem will break up civiliztion so we can make something better out of the world.
"Imagine," Tyler said, "stalking elk past department store windows and stinking racks of beautiful rotting dresses and tuxedos on hangers; you'll wear leather
clothes that will last you the rest of your life, and you'll climb the wrist-thick kidzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. Jack and the beanstalk, you'll climb up through
the dripping forest canopy and the air will be so clean you'll se tiny figures pounding corn and laying strips of venison to dry in the empty car pool lane of an
abandoned superhighway stretching eight-lanes-wide and August-hot for a thousand miles."
to wash out and flatten my soup cans. And account for every drop of used motor oil.
And I have to foot the bill for nuclear waste and buried gasoline tanks and landfilled toxic sludge dumped a generation before I was born.
I wanted to breathe smoke.
Birds and deer are a silly luxury, and all the fish should be floating.
I wanted to burn the Louvre. I'd do the Elgin Marbles with a sledgehammer and wipe my ass with the Mona Lisa. This is my world now and those ancient
people are dead.
We wanted to blast the world free of history.
We were eating breakfast in the house on Paper Street, and Tyler said, picture yourself planting radishes and seed potatoes on the fifteenth green of a
forgotten golf course.
You'll hunt elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center, and dig clams next to the skeleton of the Space Needle leaning at a
forty-five-degree angle. We'll paint the skyscrapers with huge totem faces and goblin tikis, and every evening what's left of mankind will retreat to empty zoos and
lock itself in cages as protection aganst bears and big cats and wolves that pace and watch us from outside the cage bars at night.
"Recycling and speed limits are bullshit," Tyler said. "They're like someone who quits smoking on his deathbed."
It's Project Mayhem that's going to save the world. A cultural ice age.
Like fight club does with clerks and box boys, Project Mayhem will break up civiliztion so we can make something better out of the world.
"Imagine," Tyler said, "stalking elk past department store windows and stinking racks of beautiful rotting dresses and tuxedos on hangers; you'll wear leather
clothes that will last you the rest of your life, and you'll climb the wrist-thick kidzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. Jack and the beanstalk, you'll climb up through
the dripping forest canopy and the air will be so clean you'll se tiny figures pounding corn and laying strips of venison to dry in the empty car pool lane of an
abandoned superhighway stretching eight-lanes-wide and August-hot for a thousand miles."