Fight Club—Chuck Palahniuk

[Spoiler Alert. This is the first time I have read this novel, but a video of the movie used to be in the house and I saw enough to know the big reveal about the two main characters. I’ll keep quiet about it to start with but, from the start, what I know about the film has affected the way I think of the novel. When I’m about to tell all, I’ll let you know.]

9 July 2018
Chapters 1-8 (of 30)
I’m not convinced so far. The unreliable-seeming first-person narrator seems straight out of American Psycho—it’s no surprise that quotes from Bret Easton Ellis have pride of place on both the back and front covers of my paperback copy—and the all-out American maleness of it is the little brother of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, published the same year. Except… as I made my way through the early chapters I was even more unconvinced by the would-be hardboiled tone than I was by those two novels. By about Chapter 4, I was thinking it sounded like the kind of pastiche a clever woman might write. By about Chapter 6 I was wondering, is Palahniuk gay? The female characters are scrutinised, but instead of being subjected to the usual appraisal of American male writers, Chloe the terminally ill woman is presented as a grotesque, sex-obsessed skeleton while Marla Singer is a death-obsessed neurotic whose down time activities—it’s all down time with her—are self-harm and attempted suicides. Our man gives us the low-down, in running-gag form, of the pangs he feels when his associate Tyler is the one who gets to screw Marla, several times a night. But there’s no heat in his Reader’s Digest-parodying list, it’s jealous frustration by the book. The joke-book. Did it surprise anyone that Palahniuk came out as gay something like eight years after this book was published?

I’m fine with gay writers, but the problem for me is that when Palahniuk goes for hardboiled straight it just doesn’t ring true. An adolescent-sounding obsession with death, masquerading as a kind of existential cynicism at the meaninglessness of it all (yawn) stomps over the opening chapter, before death is turned into a comic motif from then on. Then there’s the violence of the fights, lovingly detailed in that particularly 1990s American way. It reads like an exercise in style, and I don’t believe a word of it. The sex is… what? Either sublimated, unconsummated or offstage. And always disgusting. It’s the close relative of that death-obsession, a dirty smear on our man’s consciousness as he tries not to hate the father who left before was six. I’m not saying our man isn’t screwed-up—even before he throws in his lot with Tyler he’s as obsessed by his condo and branded goods as Patrick Bateman in American Psycho—but his neuroses seem to be assembled by the book, like a lot of things in this novel. I’m not saying Palahniuk isn’t a neat stylist—our man’s description of how he finds out about the catastrophic explosion in his apartment is brilliantly done—but I don’t believe a word of any of it.

[Spoilers ahead]

What the first readers of this novel didn’t know—and there can’t be many new readers now in the same position—is that this is a new take on Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Like the first readers of Stevenson’s novella, they wouldn’t have known that the two main characters are one and the same person. Like Jekyll, our unnamed narrator has created his alter-ego, although this one doesn’t know he’s done it. Tyler Durdon only exists in his imagination—so our man’s reluctance to let Tyler shoot him in the suicide pact in the opening chapter is an argument with himself. This is what I mean about the way my prior knowledge colours any reading of this novel, but it’s something that I suspect most readers have to live with. Chapter 1 is a framing device, telling us (if it’s real, and not all a psychotic dream) of how he and Tyler have set up a spectacular explosion. They are at the top of the tallest building in the world, and its fall on to the museum below—‘our real target,’ I think he calls it—will destroy the culture of millennia of pointless human activity. Are we supposed to regard this as a stupid premise? Unique artefacts might be reduced to dust and ashes, but there’ll still be plenty of stuff left in the world…. Maybe that’s the point: in the end, nihilism is self-defeating. Maybe.

After this chapter our man rewinds. He’s masquerading as one of the cancer victims in a support group, and is with his usual go-to partner. This is Bob, a huge man with ‘bitch-tits’—a more genteel term just wouldn’t cut it in this universe—which are side-effects of the hormone therapy he gets following the removal of his testicles. Our man has been attending this group, and a different one every night, because it works as a cure for his chronic insomnia. Being in the presence of so many people close to death, each one a living memento mori, calms him and allows him to sleep. But there’s a problem. For nearly a week there’s been a new faker on the block, Marla, and they recognise each other for what they are. It ruins it for him—and he tries to force her to make a deal. But she’ll only give up one night, testicular cancer—it figures—and there’s nothing he can do about it. If he wonders why she hasn’t already been thrown out of that particular group as a fake I don’t remember it. He’s very accepting of a lot of weird stuff—and just before the point I’ve reached in the novel, he’s wondering about how real she is. Is she Tyler’s alter-ego? As soon as she comes into a room, Tyler disappears, almost literally….

Eight chapters in, our man’s mind is in as much of a poor state as his face. Tyler has had him send Marla out to buy the ingredients for soap so he, the narrator, can wash one of his two pairs of work trousers after the boss sent him home in disgust at the bloody mess. (I’m not making this up.) In this universe, as bizarre as Patrick Bateman’s at the end of American Psycho, this is a perfectly reasonable request. But it seems that by-products of the process are some of the ingredients for nitro-glycerine, their explosive of choice in that opening chapter. And Palahniuk is making it easy for the reader to piece together the circumstances of that explosion in the apartment. Tyler must have done it, to force our man to have to move into his, Tyler’s, semi-derelict rented hulk of a mansion. Or, if you know (or have guessed) that Tyler is really our man, the doorman at the condo was right in his musings: some people go away and leave a bomb on a long fuse, to claim the insurance. If our man has insurance, he isn’t making any claim. He’s brought about his own crisis—and Tyler is talking about him joining him in a waiter’s job. Maybe our man’s already been fired, and forgot to mention it.

But I need to rewind to fill in a few details. I’ll be quick. Our man’s job is cynical capitalism personified: he is involved in decisions as to whether product recalls by his car-manufacturing employers are financially worthwhile. If only a few people are likely to die, it’s cheaper to simply hand out occasional big settlements because recalls cost tens of millions. He demonstrates the maths for us…. It’s no wonder he can’t sleep at night, and no wonder he’s spent his twenties finding himself a cocoon-like apartment full of pointlessly high-end products. We know about his unfulfilled life, starting with that (literally) absent father whose only contribution was to fund him, pointlessly, to go to university. At the support group meetings there’s always a form of guided meditation that takes him through various stages, ending with an ever-new discovery of his inner child. (The parallels with a similar group in Infinite Jest are so close they must both be based on mid-1990s practices.) Unfortunately, Marla’s intrusion forces him to find only her at the end of his inner journey….

I’m tempted to ask whether she, at some level, is his inner neurotic woman. This novel is full of questions of what maleness means in a world where all men do is make themselves feel ever more safe. Our man states this quite explicitly, and Tyler’s, or his, decision to bring it all to an end with a bang is obviously a part of a journey he feels he needs to make. It runs alongside an even more extreme journey, the Fight Club of the title. One Sunday night Tyler—who he’s met, of all ambiguous places, on a nudist beach—asks him to punch him. He does, reluctantly, and Tyler punches him back, hard. Soon they are scrapping in the car-park, and spectators are gathering. It becomes a weekly thing, then a club, with rules. The main one is that outside of its ungodly hours each Sunday night nobody can mention it—so our man gets used to not acknowledging other men he’s seen at the fights, nursing broken noses and other injuries. How does it go? The person—i.e. the man—you are at fight club is not the person you are otherwise. A lowly clerk can be a figure of awe.

So death—including the dark comedy of our man’s job—and violence, and contact with other men—hugging and other physical support at the group meetings, punches in the eye at fight club—and safety versus danger, and meaning versus non-meaning, and the idea of sex with women—sex we never witness, admittedly—and what it means to be a man in the late 20th Century in America… they’re all here. Palahniuk wants to take us into some deeply problematic territory, and plenty of people take this novel seriously. Maybe I’ll be more convinced after I’ve read a few more chapters.