Quotes from Gillian Flynn

I waited her out. Empathetic silence is one of the most underused weapons in the world.

I stand in the middle of my room and debate not answering. Bang bang bang. I understand now why so many horror movies use that device—the mysterious knock on the door—because it has the weight of a nightmare. You don't know what's out there, yet you know you'll open it. You'll think what I think: No one bad ever knocks .

I'd always liked our inside jokes the best—they made me feel more connected to Amy than any amount of confessional truth-telling or passionate lovemaking or talk-till-sunrising.

Mom, you are the most gracious, generous person I know and someday I will write a book in which the mother is not a) evil or b) killed.

Throwing things near her but not exactly at her. I'm sure he told himself: I never hit her. I'm sure because of this technicality he never saw himself as an abuser. But he turned our family life into an endless road trip with bad directions and a rage-clenched driver, a vacation that never got a chance to be fun. Don't make me turn this car around. Please, really, turn it around.

Why is Amy amazing and Andy's just able? Well, don't you know a lot of powerful, fabulous women who settle for regular guys, Average Joes and Able Andys?

Maybe I'd grow a garden of weeds.

The bigger the lie, the more they believe it.

We are one long frightening climax.

Because that means the day has ended. I like checking days off a calendar—151 days crossed and nothing truly horrible has happened. 152 and the world isn't ruined. 153 and I haven't destroyed anyone. 154 and no one really hates me. Sometimes I think I won't ever feel safe until I can count my last days on one hand. Three more days to get through until I don't have to worry about life anymore.

Len never said hello as a greeting; he said something like a yodel, He-a-lo!

You sure you should have that out, James? You don't want to use that. Guns are very dangerous.

I hated him for not knowing it has to end, for truly believing he had married this creature, this figment of the imagination of a million masturbatory men, semen-fingered and self-satisfied. He truly seemed astonished when I asked him to listen to me. He couldn't believe I didn't love wax-stripping my pussy raw and blowing him on request.

The world will always need a drink

The waitress, a plain brunette disguised as a pretty brunette...

it's been years since I even really liked someone. So how likely is it I'll meet someone I love, much less someone I love enough to marry? I'm tired of not knowing who I'll be with, or if I'll be with anyone.

There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn't ever complain.

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.

So my father went away and my thin, pained mother got fat and happy—fairly fat and extremely happy—as if she were supposed to be that way all along: a deflated balloon taking in air.

The way some women change fashion regularly, I change personalities.

I have a guy in my office—sensitive. When I got passed over for a promotion, he suggested I sue for discrimination. I wasn't discriminated against, I was a mediocre reporter. And sometimes drunk women aren't raped; they just make stupid choices—and to say we deserve special treatment when we're drunk because we're women, to say we need to be looked after, I find offensive.

And now to be one of them! One of the women with the endless stories that make people nod sympathetically and think: Poor dumb bitch.

It's every asshole's mantra: I married a psycho bitch. But I got a small, nasty bite of gratification: I really did marry a genuine, bona fide psycho bitch.

How are you, it wasn't a courtesy, it was an existential question.