Quotes from Gillian Flynn

I was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.

ArkadaÅŸlar birbirlerinin kusurlar?n? görür. EÅŸlerse birbirlerinin en kuytu kusurlar?n? bilir.

Everyone has a moment where life goes off the rails. Mine was the day Marian died. The day I picked up that knife is a tight second.

Writers (my kind of writers: aspiring novelists, ruminative thinkers, people whose brains don't work quick enough to blog or link or tweet, basically old, stubborn blowhards) were through. We were like women's hat makers or buggy-whip manufacturers: Our time was done.

I really wanted the book to make money, in an obsessive childish way—that feeling that if I wanted it enough, it should happen. It should happen.

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. It's a lonely way to go through life.

I could feel the night hanging on me like a soft, damp bedgown

We just want you to be happy.' Rand and Marybeth said that all the time, but they never explained how. So many lessons and opportunities and advantages, and they never taught me how to be happy.

She'd used the treasure hunt to take me on a tour of all my infidelities.

Nothing had consequence, I was living in the moment and I could feel myself getting shallower and dumber.

What an indulgence it would be, to just blow off my head, all my mean spirits disappearing with a gun blast, like blowing a seedy dandelion apart.

I never worked holidays, because holiday hand jobs are sad for everyone.

When I'd been sad, I hurt myself. Amma hurt other people. When I'd wanted attention, I'd submitted myself to boys: Do what you want; just like me. Amma's sexual offerings seemed a form of aggression. Long skinny legs and slim wrists and high, babied voice all aimed like a gun. Do what I want; I might like you.

Remember that game you always played with Mom when we were little: Would you still love me if? Would you still love me if I smacked Go? Would you still love me if I robbed a bank? Would you still love me if I killed someone?' I said nothing. My breath was coming too fast. 'I would still love you,' Go said. 'Go, do you really need me to say it?' She stayed silent. 'I did not kill Amy.' She stayed silent. 'Do you believe me?' I asked. 'I love you.

I need to be ambushed, caught unawares, like some sort of feral love-jackal. I'm too self-conscious otherwise.

He killed my soul, which should be a crime. Actually, it is a crime. According to me, at least.

Frankly, I think Adora prefers us to feel like strangers. She wants all relationships in the house to run through her.

Everywhere felt like a jail now- doors opening and closing, and me never feeling safe.

And I didn't realize. I didn't take into account. Just. You know, this is real to you. I mean, I know that, we know that, but we don't at the same time. We really just never will. I don't think. Totally get that. You spend so much time discussing and debating it becomes... But. Well. I'm sorry.

Diary Amy. She was meant to be likable. Meant for someone like you to like her. She's easy to like. I've never understood why that's considered a compliment—that just anyone could like you. No matter.

My mother said she was the most popular girl in school, and I believed it. Jackie said she was the meanest, and I believed that, too.

This was my eleventh lie.

That's what I did, though—I had angry, defensive conversations in my head, got mad at things that hadn't even happened yet. Yet.

Lately, I've been leaning towards kindness. - Camille Preaker