Quotes from Gillian Flynn

So are there any asshole guys here I can start dating?' she says. 'That's, like, my pattern.

No one I've loved has ever not had an agenda.

You're sexist. I'm so sick of liberal lefty men practicing sexual discrimination under the guise of protecting women against sexual discrimination.

A lot of people lacked that gift: knowing when to fuck off. 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

I don't feel like Nick's wife. I don't feel like a person at all: I am something to be loaded and unloaded, like a sofa or a cuckoo clock. I am something to be tossed into a junkyard, thrown into the river, if necessary. I don't feel real anymore. I feel like I could disappear.

It seemed like a joke, how much all of these dudes looked alike, like living was so hard it just erased your features, rubbed out anything distinctive.

I don't know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It's a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters.

It was one of those moments where you saved me, you made me laugh at just the right time.

Because I realized I'd be stuck doing all the hard stuff, she reasoned. All the diapers and doctors' appointments and discipline, and you'd just breeze in and be Fun Daddy. I'd do all the work to make them good people, and you'd undo it anyway, and they'd love you and hate me.

but fact is, 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.

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.

You stopped loving me. We're a sick, fucking toxic Möbius strip, Amy. We weren't ourselves when we fell in love, and when we became ourselves - surprise! - we were poison. We complete each other in the nastiest, ugliest possible way. You don't even really love me, Amy. You don't even like me. Divorce me. Divorce me, and let's try to be happy.

My body was heading into a flare. I paced a bit, tried to remember how to breathe right, how to calm my skin. But it blared at me. Sometimes my scars have a mind of their own.

He Giving Treed me out of existence.

I knew I liked her then, really liked her, this girl with an explanation for everything.

Depression to me is urine yellow. Washed out, exhausted miles of weak piss.

All the stuff I don't like about myself has been pushed to the back of my brain. Maybe that is what I like best about him, the way he makes me. Not makes me feel, just makes me. I am fun. I am playful. I am game. I feel naturally happy and entirely satisfied.

he's always been moody. Even when he was a baby he was like a cat. All snuggly one second and then the next, he'd be looking at you like he had no idea who you were.

He has a great smile, a cat's smile. He should cough out yellow Tweety Bird feathers, the way he smiles at me.

One should never marry a man who doesn't own a decent set of scissors. That would be my advice. It leads to bad things.

What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?

Danish. I'd come to believe there was no food more depressing than Danish, a pastry that seemed stale upon arrival.

She had what the Victorians would call a finely shaped head . You could imagine the skull quite easily. I'd know her head anywhere. And what's inside it. I think of that, too: her mind. Her brain, all those coils, and her thoughts shuttling through those coils like fast, frantic centipedes. Like a child, I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down her thoughts. What are you thinking, Amy?

But I wasn't a well-read bookworm; I was just a dumb whore in the right library.