Quotes from Gillian Flynn

Stay away from boys. They'll either throw rocks or look up your skirt.

I blame my mother. A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.

Sometimes that's what happens. No cigarette burns, no bone snaps. Just an irretrievable slipping.

I'm not someone who can be depended on five days a week. Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday? I don't even get out of bed five days in a row—I often don't remember to eat five days in a row.

I am absolutely, one hundred percent sincere right now- I have your back, and I won't fuck with you.

Normally, Richard was the kind of guy I disliked, someone born and raised plush: looks, charm, smarts, probably money. These men were never very interesting to me; they had no edges, and they were usually cowards. They instinctively fled any situation that might cause them embarrassment or awkwardness. But Richard didn't bore me. Maybe because his grin was a little crooked. Or because he made his living dealing in ugly things.

I think, immediately, that there is something wrong with us, perhaps unfixable, if my husband wouldn't think to tell me this. Sometimes I feel it's his personal game, that he's in some sort of undeclared contest for impenetrability.

I mean, if I were a guy, looking to pay a girl to wank me off, I wouldn't walk in the room and say, "My God, I smell hints of fresh strudel and nutmeg… quick, grab my dick!

I could feel my limbs disconnecting, floating nearby like driftwood on an oily lake.

No one saves an e-mail, because it's so inherently impersonal. I worry about posterity in general. All the great love letters - from Simone de Beauvoir to Sartre, from Samuel Clemens to his wife, Olivia - I don't know, I always think about what will be lost -

A lot of people lacked that gift: knowing when to fuck off. People love talking, and I have never been a huge talker. I carry on an inner monologue, but the words often don't reach my lips. She looks nice today, I'd think, but somehow it wouldn't occur to me to say it out loud. My mom talked, my sister talked. I'd been raised to listen. So, sitting on the couch by myself, not talking, felt decadent.

The children in the woods play wild, secret games.

And I think, I'm so fucking lonely. I go home and cry for a while. I am almost 32. That's not old especially in New York. But the fact is it has been years since I even liked someone. So how likely is it I'll meet someone I love enough to marry? I'm tired of not knowing who I'll be with, or if I'll be with anyone.

My demons aren't remotely tackled, they're just mildly concussed.

I have a mistress. Now is the part where I have to tell you I have a mistress and you stop liking me. If you liked me to begin with. I have a pretty, young, very young mistress, and her name is Andie.

I couldn't decide if I'd been mistreated. By Richard, by those boys who took my virginity, by anyone. I was never really on my side in any argument.

I'm a self-didact. (Not a dirty word, look it up.) I read constantly. I think. But I lack formal education. So I'm left with the feeling that I'm smarter than everyone around me but that if I ever got around really smart people—people who went to universities and drank wine and spoke Latin—that they'd be bored as hell by me.

You have the same rhythm. Click. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. And it's so far beyond fine that you know you can never go back to fine. That fast. You think: Oh, here is the rest of my life. It's finally arrived.

That's how screwed up you are, I thought. Your idea of adulthood still comes from picturebooks.

There's something disturbing about not even bothering with a name. Whenever I see news stories about children who were killed by their parents, I think: But how could it be? They cared enough to give this kid a name, they had a moment—at least one moment—when they sifted through all the possibilities and picked one specific name for their child, decided what they would call their baby. How could you kill something you cared enough to name?

así fue como apareció, de la nada, mientras Rand rogaba por el regreso de su hija: una sonrisa de asesino.

Because everyone loves the Dead Girl.

It never takes much for me to lose patience. The phrase 'fuck you' may not rest on the tip of my tongue, but it's near. Midtongue.

An inside joke is like a symbol of friendship without having to do the work required of an actual friendship.