Again, I must confess something before I share my thoughts On Fight Club with you. I’m sure you could probably tell, but this is most certainly not my first time reading this book. More like the seventieth time. And I’m not ashamed. Now then, let’s begin, shall we?

I’m going to go right ahead and break the famous first rule of Fight Club: I am going to talk about Fight Club. A lot. I could honestly spend hours and hours singing Chuck Palahniuk’s praises. He is easily one of my favourite authors. His writing style is witty and honest, it makes you think, really think, without you even noticing. 

This book is most likely one of the best and most accurate commentaries on consumerism that I have ever come across. And after all, we all have some form of Tyler Durden inside of us, a little voice constantly letting us know that we don’t have to work jobs we can’t stand to buy stuff we don’t need, or that when you’ve lost everything, you’re free to do anything.

Fight Club is a masterpiece in every sense of the word, an eye-opener filled with hidden truths, a reminder that we are not special. We are not beautiful or unique snowflakes. We are the same decaying organic matter as everything else. The all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. The middle children of history.