Quotes from Gillian Flynn

I just think some women aren't made to be mothers. And some women aren't made to be daughters.

My story would satisfy Desi's craving for ruined women -- I was now the most damaged of them all.

As we move forward with the investigation, we can only hope that Amy comes back to us. Her story must continue. The world is ready for a new chapter.

Go and I had a game inspired by our mom, who had a habit of telling such outrageously mundane, endless stories that Go was positive she had to be secretly fucking with us. For about ten years now, whenever Go and I hit a conversation lull, one of us would break in with a story about appliance repair or coupon fulfillment.

Never leave a message for someone you really want to reach. No, you keep phoning and phoning until someone picks up—out of anger or curiosity or fear—and then you blurt out whatever words will keep them on the line. I

Hay una diferencia entre querer de verdad a una persona y querer la idea que te has hecho de ella».

suppose it's not a compromise if only one of you considers

It had barely registered, the lament was so commonplace. But I felt it now.

And then the strangest thought of all clattered drunkenly from the back of my brain to the front and blinded me: If I kill Amy, who will I be?

It was a town that bred complacency through cable TV and a convenience store.

But one day I will wear him down, I will catch him off guard, and he will lose the energy for the nightly battle, and he will get in bed with me. In the middle of the night, I'll turn to face him and press myself against him. I'll hold myself to him like a climbing, coiling vine until I have invaded every part of him and made him mine.

So there it came, out of nowhere, as Rand begged for his daughter's return: a killer smile.

I was pretending, the way I often did, pretending to have a personality. I cant help it, it's what I've always done: The way some women change fashion regularly, I change personalities. What persona feels good, what's coveted, what's au courant? I think most people do this, they just don't admit it, or else they settle on one persona because they're too lazy or stupid to pull off a switch.

At one point, she probably liked the idea of a daughter. When she was a girl, I bet she daydreamed of being a mother, of coddling, of licking her child like a milk-swelled cat. She has that voraciousness about children. She swoops in on them. Even I, in public, was a beloved child.

She's a planner. She doesn't, you know, wing anything. She likes to make lists and check things off, get things done.

This is the hardest part: waiting for stupid people to figure things out.

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.

Imagine the righteous dismay when Ann arrived. She got slapped with some family name—didn't even get the extra e to ornament it a bit.

He took away chunks of me with blasé swipes: my independence, my pride, my esteem. I gave, and he took and took. He Giving Treed me out of existence. That whore, he picked that little whore over me. He killed my soul, which should be a crime.

It embarrassed me. Marrow-deep embarrassment, the kind that becomes part of your DNA, that changes you.

You know how people sometimes say they have to hurt because if they don't, they're so numb they won't feel anything?" "Mmm." "What if it's the opposite?" Amma whispered. "What if you hurt because it feels so good? Like you have a tingling, like someone left a switch on in your body. And nothing can turn the switch off except hurting? What does that mean?

It was kind of romantic. Catastrophically romantic.

My story for the day was a limp sort of evil.

I realized I was humming "Uncle John's Band" to myself for no good reason.