Quotes from Gillian Flynn

She made pronouncements: I like ponies. I hate spaghetti. I hate you. Like her mother, she had no poker face. No poker mood. It was all right there. When she wasn't angry or sad, she just didn't say much. Now, seat belted in back, taken along for the ride, she sat silently, her pink-blotched face aimed out the window, a finger against the glass, tracing the tops of trees outside.

twice-removed somethings and whom I only mildly terrorized.

the urgent hopefulness of a seriously underdog politician with a lot of true believers refusing to give up.

I do know that framing your husband for your murder is beyond the pale of what an average would do. But it's so very necessary.

La mayoría de las cosas buenas y hermosas son llevadas a cabo por mujeres menospreciadas por la mayoría.

A los norteamericanos les chifla ver cómo se disculpan los pecadores.

rage, despair, fear, but you'd never guess from looking at me.

There's something disturbing about recalling a warm memory and feeling utterly cold

It is now two million square feet of echo.

I was rotten.

I was raised in the city by a one-eyed mother...

I've got to get him out of my head—he still steps on my lines from a hundred miles away.)

I'd been careful to be low-maintenance, easygoing, cheerful, all those things people want women to be.

There is an unfair responsibility that comes with being an only child—you grow up knowing you aren't allowed to disappoint, you're not even

I just wish he thought about me as much as I do him.

It was true, Ben at age two was an astonishing thing. He'd demand love outright, grab at a breast or an arm, but as soon as he had enough affection, and that came quickly, he'd go completely limp, play dead until you let him go.

I created a manuscript, and she created a life. I

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.

Nick grew up with a father who never, ever apologized, so when Nick feels he has screwed up, he goes on offense.

That was the worst word Diane could have said. As soon as she said it, Patty knew she'd been dreading just exactly that. That wedge of possibility—misunderstanding—that could turn this into something. A pat on the head might be a caress of the back might be a kiss on the lips might be the roof caving in.

I'm a big fan of the lie of omission.

One snowy April night, I felt so lonely. I was drinking warm amaretto with Bleecker and reading, lying on the floor as the snow came down, listening to old scratchy albums, like Nick and I used to

It seemed to me that she'd been expelled into this world not quite formed.

You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who'd like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I'd want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn't really love chili dogs that much—no one loves chili dogs that much!