Quotes from Gillian Flynn

An angry stepson and a husband who was always away, no wonder she let her mind go to dark places.

People always were , they always wanted to know, what kind of women gets slaughtered by her own son?

That sweet muddy smell was purely animal, like the deepest corner of a bear's cave. It was almost foreign to me, this lived-in, overnight odor.

Nick will come home, sweaty and salty and beer-loose from a day at the ballpark, and I'll curl up in his lap, ask him about the game, ask him if his friend Jack had a good time, and he'll say, "Oh, he came down with a case of the dancing monkeys—poor Jennifer was having a 'real stressful week' and really needed him at home.

see a 3 and an 8. (He said.) And then work

The woman's entire music collection is formed from Pottery Barn compilations.

One should never marry a man who doesn't own a decent set of scissors.

But there's no app for a bourbon buzz on a warm day in a cool, dark bar. The world will always want a drink. Our

El amor debería exigir que ambas partes de n lo mejor de sí mismas en todo momento. El amor incondicional es un amor indisciplinado y, como ya hemos visto todos, el amor indisciplinado solo conduce al desastre.

And it's so far beyond fine that you know you can never go back to fine.

I hear they come to all the high-school parties," DeeAnna said. "And take all the boys. And do things we didn't do till we were old married women—and then only after the transaction of a few nice pieces of jewelry." She twirled a diamond tennis bracelet.

I mean I would rather be a librarian but I worry about the job security, books may be temporary dicks are forever.

You're in exquisite pain, you're not sleeping.' the mention of insomnia was always risky but usually paid off. People in pain don't general sleep well, insomniacs are exquisitely great full for people to recognize their weariness.

The Midwest is full of these types of people: the nice-enoughs. Nice enough but with a soul made of plastic—easy to mold, easy to wipe down.

Most beautiful, good things are done by women people scorn.

It's the kind of place where people mill about.

Our room overlooks the parking lot, and if I peek out from behind the stiff beige curtains

Is that wrong? I don't even know anymore.

Everything just plinked off this woman—bing, bang!—like she was shellacked.

our first customer, a gray-haired woman in bifocals and

He'd come back from a night out drinking, and I'd ask him how the bar was, whatever bar, and he'd so often say: Totally inundated by Lost Causes, his code for women my age. At the time, a girl barely in her thirties, I'd smirked along with him as if that would never happen to me. Now I am his Lost Cause, and he's trapped with me, and maybe that's why he's so angry.

I know women whose entire personas are woven from a benign mediocrity. Their lives are a list of shortcomings: the unappreciative boyfriend, the extra ten pounds, the dismissive boss, the conniving sister, the straying husband.

My brain had been burping up such inappropriate thoughts at inopportune moments. Mental gas I couldn't control.

Manipulating the manipulatable?