Author: Gillian Flynn
Last Read: January 2015
I read Gone Girl after watching the movie, which was probably a mistake. The book was very similar to the movie, so the plot twists were already spoiled. However, that's not to say the book was ruined - the book was still a very enjoyable read. I certainly felt frustrated by the situation of the two main characters, so the book gets bonus points for evoking real feelings from me.
Watch out for those crazy relationships, folks! And perhaps don't read this one right before bed…
There’s something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold.
But there’s no app for a bourbon buzz on a warm day in a cool, dark bar. The world will always want a drink.
Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.)
It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters.
Shawna said. “I mentioned it to Detective Boney, but I get the feeling she doesn’t like me very much.” “Why do you say that?” I already knew what she was going to say, the mantra of all attractive women. “Women don’t like me all that much.”
I was embarrassed, I snarled at her, she snapped at me, and … the usual. I should add, in Amy’s defense, that she’d asked me twice if I wanted to talk, if I was sure I wanted to do this. I sometimes leave out details like that. It’s more convenient for me. In truth, I wanted her to read my mind so I didn’t have to stoop to the womanly art of articulation. I was sometimes as guilty of playing the figure-me-out game as Amy was. I’ve left that bit of information out too.
My mother had always told her kids: If you’re about to do something, and you want to know if it’s a bad idea, imagine seeing it printed in the paper for all the world to see.
Love makes you want to be a better man—right, right. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are.
I could feel her girl-brain buzzing, turning Amy’s disappearance into a frothy, scandalous romance, ignoring any reality that didn’t suit the narrative.
“And, I mean, it’s fun to be hero for a while, be the white knight, but it doesn’t really work for long. I couldn’t make her be happy. She didn’t want to be happy. So I thought if she started taking charge of a few practical things—”
I’d always heard the phrase: At forty, a man wears the face he’s earned. Bolt’s fortyish face was well tended, almost wrinkle-free, pleasantly plump with ego. Here was a confident man, the best in his field, a man who liked his life.
That whore, he picked that little whore over me. He killed my soul, which should be a crime. Actually, it is a crime. According to me, at least.
He was inspecting the neighborhood, eyeing the cars in the driveways, assessing the houses. He reminded me of the Elliotts, in a way—examining and analyzing at all times. A brain with no off switch.
If it’s not good TV, believe me, it’s not for a jury. We’d go with more of an O.J. thing. A simple story line: The cops are incompetent and out to get you, it’s all circumstantial, if the glove doesn’t fit, blah blah, blah.”
“Blah blah blah, that gives me a lot of confidence,” I said. Tanner flashed a smile. “Juries love me, Nick. I’m one of them.” “You’re the opposite of one of them, Tanner.” “Reverse that: They’d like to think they’re one of me.”
This one always makes me chuckle:
We just need to sustain it. Nick doesn’t have it down perfect. This morning he was stroking my hair and asking what else he could do for me, and I said: “My gosh, Nick, why are you so wonderful to me?” He was supposed to say: You deserve it. I love you. But he said, “Because I feel sorry for you.” “Why?” “Because every morning you have to wake up and be you.”
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