Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions. Men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank…
Catalog
Gillian Flynn
Gillian Schieber Flynn (/ˈɡɪliən/; born February 24, 1971) is an American author, screenwriter, comic book writer and former television critic for Entertainment Weekly. Flynn's three published novels are the thrillers Sharp Objects, Dark Places, and Gone Girl, the last of which she adapted for the screen in the 2014 film of the same name directed by David Fincher. 2Early life and educationEdit Flynn was born in Kansas City, Missouri and raised in midtown Kansas City's Coleman Highlands neighborhood. Both of her parents were professors at Metropolitan Community College–Penn Valley: her mother, Judith Ann (née Schieber), was a reading-comprehension professor, and her father, Edwin Matthew Flynn, was a film professor. She has an older brother, Travis, who is a railroad machinist. Her uncle is Jackson County Circuit Court Judge Robert Schieber. Flynn was "painfully shy" and found escape in reading and writing. Growing up, Flynn's father would take her to watch horror movies. Flynn attended Bishop Miege High School and graduated in 1989. As a teenager, she worked odd jobs which required her to do things such as dress up as a giant "yogurt cone who wore a tuxedo." She attended the University of Kansas, where she received her undergraduate degrees in English and journalis
Love should require both partners to be their very best at all times
There’s a difference between really loving someone and loving the idea of her.
Love makes you want to be better…But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the…[person] you are.
I’d fallen in love with her because I was the ultimate me with her. Loving her made me superhuman, it made me feel alive. At her easiest, she was hard, because her brain was always working, working, working.
I often don’t say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you’d never guess from looking at me.
I often don’t say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of 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.
Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase?
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.
It had gotten to the point where it seemed like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else.
People want to believe they know other people. Parents want to believe they know their kids. Wives want to believe they know their husbands.
You are a cheater. You have failed one of the most basic male tests. You are not a good man.
My brain had been burping up such inappropriate thoughts at inopportune moments. Mental gas I couldn’t control.
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.
...and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine.
I don't understand the point of being together if you're not the happiest.
A lot of people lacked that gift: knowing when to fuck off.
Americans like what is easy, and it's easy to like pregnant women - they're like ducklings or bunnies or dogs. Still, it baffles me that these self-righteous, self-enthralled waddlers get such special treatment. As if it's so hard to spread your legs and let a man ejaculate between them.