Quotes from Gillian Flynn

You are a cheater. You have failed one of the most basic male tests. You are not a good man.' And when that didn't bother me, I thought: 'You're really not a good man.

I assumed everything bad in the world could happen, because everything bad in the world already did happen

Had things turned out differently, I might have amused myself with a series of heart-wretched lovers. I might have dallied with brilliant men. I might have married.

It was an itinerary for an alternate life. If things had gone according to my wife's vision, yesterday she would have hovered near me as I read this poem, watching me expectantly, the hope emanating from her like a fever: *Please get this. Please get me.*

Teeth chattering and my heartbeat thumping behind my eyeballs.

They say you can litter-box train them, but they lie.

Day, would meet harm on top of it? Wasn't I safe by default?

I just wish he thought about me as much as I do him. Is that wrong? I don't even know anymore.

He never had the talent, just the hard wish.

É impossível competir com os mortos. Eu gostaria de conseguir parar de tentar.

On a nearby telephone pole flapped a grainy photocopy of an unsmiling teen, missing since October 2007. Two more blocks, and what I thought was a copy of the same poster turned out to be a new missing girl, vanished in June 2008. Both girls were unkempt, surly, which explained why they weren't getting the Lisette Stephens treatment. I made a mental note to take a smiling, pretty photo of myself in case I ever disappeared.

I don't feel real anymore. I feel like I could disappear.

Noelle forced the crowd to part for

bratty, bratty New York girl who has never ventured to those big unwieldy middle states, those States Where Many Other People Live)

He has that look, like I am being unreasonable

suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage: What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?

Curry gosta de dizer que repórteres são como vampiros. Não podem entrar em sua casa sem seu convite, mas, uma vez do lado de dentro, você não consegue expulsá-los até que tenham sugado todo o seu sangue.

O rosto que você apresenta ao mundo diz ao mundo como tratar você (...).

Thanks to George R. R. Martin, who asked me to write him a story.

There was a barn nearby but no sign of a house, and the cows were too dumb to walk back into the barn, so they stood like a bunch of fat assholes, blowing steam from their nostrils.

I didn't need to hide from someone courting oblivion as ardently as I was.

On the pavement near my car are the smashed skeletons of two baby birds, their flattened beaks and wings making them look reptilian. They've been there for a year. I can't resist looking at them each time I get in my car. We need a good flood, wash them away.

It's a rented house right along the Mississippi River, a house that screams Suburban Nouveau Riche, the kind of place I aspired to as a kid from my split-level, shag-carpet side of town. The kind of house that is immediately familiar: a generically grand, unchallenging, new, new, new house that my wife would-and did-detest. 'Should I remove my soul before I come inside?' Her first line upon arrival.

Don't sweat the small stuff, it's all small stuff. If only we'd stop trying to be happy we'd have a pretty good time. Enjoy life—no one gets out of here alive. Don't worry, be happy.