And I don't mean that in some sort of nambsy-pambsy metaphor, as in "Oh, I wasn't as emotionally ravaged in life as Ana Lucia so when I had to fistfight her I didn't give it my all, therefore I beat myself." I mean getting an ass kicking myself by myself in the only way worth doing it. Dissociative personality disorder expressing itself in a parking lot. Sound familiar? It's from the cinematic anthem to mediocrity and consumerism of my generation.
Fight Club. Fucking Fight Club.
|I am Jack's sense of self-loathing. Oh, and Jack is you.|
Yet even in that, there's a bit of self-loathing appropriate for the notion of me kicking my ass. Tyler "dies," and that genie is put back into the bottle. Indeed, as he passes on, or disappears, or recedes as the Narrator's mind heals (hey, newsflash: the Narrator isn't named, because he's the audience), Tyler almost notices his own corrupt self for the first time. "What's that smell?" he asks, fading away.
So maybe there is no honor in it. Or maybe the honor is that once Tyler Durden kicks your ass, it's only a matter of time before you kick his ass back.
The irony being that you're only beating yourself up.