Download a PDF copy of gone girl by Gillian Flynn before the movie is released. Gone Girl is a thriller novel by Gillian Flynn. It was published by Crown Publishing Group in June This novel soon made the New York. Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. Book Summary. On a warm summer morning in North Carthage, Missouri, it is Nick and Amy's fifth wedding anniversary. Presents.
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Index of /~jarkoh/Books/Others/Fiction 0/scretch.info GIRL - Gillian Flynn. Title: Gone Girl pdf, Author: Al Greenshire, Length: 2 pages, Published: Reviews: site Best Books of the Month, June On their fifth. GONE scretch.info - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf) or read book online.
The shape of it, to begin with. The very first time I saw her, it was the back of the head I saw, and there was something lovely about it, the angles of it. Like a shiny, hard corn kernel or a riverbed fossil. She had what the Victorians would call a finely shaped head. You could imagine the skull quite easily. I think of that, too: her mind.
You will be seen. The kind of house that is immediately familiar: a generically grand, unchallenging, new, new, new house that my wife would — and did — detest. But the only houses for rent were clustered in this failed development: a miniature ghost town of bank-owned, recession-busted, price-reduced mansions, a neighborhood that closed before it ever opened.
To Amy, it was a punishing whim on my part, a nasty, selfish twist of the knife. I would drag her, caveman-style, to a town she had aggressively avoided, and make her live in the kind of house she used to mock. One of us was always angry. Amy, usually. Do not blame me for this particular grievance, Amy. The Missouri Grievance. Blame the economy, blame bad luck, blame my parents, blame your parents, blame the Internet, blame people who use the Internet.
I used to be a writer. I was a writer who wrote about TV and movies and books. Back when people read things on paper, back when anyone cared about what I thought. New York was packed with writers, real writers, because there were magazines, real magazines, loads of them. Think about it: a time when newly graduated college kids could come to New York and get paid to write. We had no clue that we were embarking on careers that would vanish within a decade.
All around the country, magazines began shuttering, succumbing to a sudden infection brought on by the busted economy. Three weeks after I got cut loose, Amy lost her job, such as it was. That, she would tell you, is typical. Just like Nick, she would say. It was a refrain of hers: Just like Nick to … and whatever followed, whatever was just like me, was bad.
Two jobless grown-ups, we spent weeks wandering around our Brooklyn brownstone in socks and pajamas, ignoring the future, strewing unopened mail across tables and sofas, eating ice cream at ten a. Then one day the phone rang. My twin sister was on the other end. Margo had moved back home after her own New York layoff a year before — the girl is one step ahead of me in everything, even shitty luck.
Our dad was nearly gone — his nasty mind, his miserable heart, both murky as he meandered toward the great gray beyond. But it looked like our mother would beat him there. About six months, maybe a year, she had. Dates and doses. Does that even make sense? I almost cried with relief.
I could hear her breathing on the other end. Why not? I simply assumed I would bundle up my New York wife with her New York interests, her New York pride, and remove her from her New York parents — leave the frantic, thrilling futureland of Manhattan behind — and transplant her to a little town on the river in Missouri, and all would be fine.
I did not yet understand how foolish, how optimistic, how, yes, just like Nick I was for thinking this. The misery it would lead to. Their few meetings had left them both baffled. My morning breath warmed the pillow, and I changed the subject in my mind. Today was not a day for second-guessing or regret, it was a day for doing. Downstairs, I could hear the return of a long-lost sound: Amy making breakfast. Banging wooden cupboards rump-thump! A culinary orchestra tuning up, clattering vigorously toward the finale, a cake pan drumrolling along the floor, hitting the wall with a cymballic crash.
Something impressive was being created, probably a crepe, because crepes are special, and today Amy would want to cook something special. It was our five-year anniversary. I walked barefoot to the edge of the steps and stood listening, working my toes into the plush wall-towall carpet Amy detested on principle, as I tried to decide whether I was ready to join my wife. Amy was in the kitchen, oblivious to my hesitation. She was humming something melancholy and familiar.
I strained to make it out — a folk song? Suicide is painless. I went downstairs. I hovered in the doorway, watching my wife. Her yellow-butter hair was pulled up, the hank of ponytail swinging cheerful as a jumprope, and she was sucking distractedly on a burnt fingertip, humming around it. She hummed to herself because she was an unrivaled botcher of lyrics. I knew I liked her then, really liked her, this girl with an explanation for everything.
Amy peered at the crepe sizzling in the pan and licked something off her wrist. She looked triumphant, wifely. If I took her in my arms, she would smell like berries and powdered sugar. I thought to myself: Okay, go. I was very late getting to work. My sister and I had done a foolish thing when we both moved back home. We had done what we always talked about doing. We opened a bar.
We borrowed money from Amy to do this, eighty thousand dollars, which was once nothing to Amy but by then was almost everything. I swore I would pay her back, with interest. I would not be a man who borrowed from his wife — I could feel my dad twisting his lips at the very idea. Well, there are all kinds of men , his most damning phrase, the second half left unsaid, and you are the wrong kind.
But truly, it was a practical decision, a smart business move. Amy and I both needed new careers; this would be mine.
Like the McMansion I rented, the bar featured symbolically in my childhood memories — a place where only grown-ups go, and do whatever grown-ups do.
The world will always want a drink. Our bar is a corner bar with a haphazard, patchwork aesthetic. Its best feature is a massive Victorian backbar, dragon heads and angel faces emerging from the oak — an extravagant work of wood in these shitty plastic days. We named the bar The Bar.
Yes, we thought we were being clever New Yorkers — that the name was a joke no one else would really get, not get like we did. Not meta-get. I pulled into the parking lot. I waited until a strike erupted from the bowling alley — thank you, thank you, friends — then stepped out of the car.
I admired the surroundings, still not bored with the broken-in view: the squatty blond-brick post office across the street now closed on Saturdays , the unassuming beige office building just down the way now closed, period. Still, it was where my mom grew up and where she raised me and Go, so it had some history. Mine, at least.
As I walked toward the bar across the concrete-and-weed parking lot, I looked straight down the road and saw the river. I could walk down the road and step right into the sucker, an easy three-foot drop, and be on my way to Tennessee. And so on. Moving apace with the river was a long single-file line of men, eyes aimed at their feet, shoulders tense, walking steadfastly nowhere.
As I watched them, one suddenly looked up at me, his face in shadow, an oval blackness. I turned away.
I felt an immediate, intense need to get inside. The sun was still an angry eye in the sky.
You have been seen. My gut twisted, and I moved quicker. I needed a drink. I am smiling a big adopted-orphan smile as I write this.
I am embarrassed at how happy I am, like some Technicolor comic of a teenage girl talking on the phone with my hair in a ponytail, the bubble above my head saying: I met a boy! But I did. This is a technical, empirical truth. I met a boy, a great, gorgeous dude, a funny, cool-ass guy. But still. Now, I like a writer party, I like writers, I am the child of writers, I am a writer. But really, I do think my quizzes alone qualify me on at least an honorary basis.
At a party you find yourself surrounded by genuine talented writers, employed at high-profile, respected newspapers and magazines.
Yeah, so suck it, snobdouche! I worry for a second that she wants to set us up: I am not interested in being set up. I need to be ambushed, caught unawares, like some sort of feral lovejackal. But no, I realize, as Carmen gushes on about her friend: She likes him.
We climb three flights of warped stairs and walk into a whoosh of body heat and writerness: many black-framed glasses and mops of hair; faux western shirts and heathery turtlenecks; black wool pea-coats flopped all across the couch, puddling to the floor; a German poster for The Getaway Ihre Chance war gleich Null!
I nudge in, aiming my plastic cup in the center like a busker, get a clatter of ice cubes and a splash of vodka from a sweet-faced guy wearing a Space Invaders T-shirt. It is a January party, definitely, everyone still glutted and sugar-pissed from the holidays, lazy and irritated simultaneously.
A party where people drink too much and pick cleverly worded fights, blowing cigarette smoke out an open window even after the host asks them to go outside. I have lost Carmen to her host-beau — they are having an intense discussion in a corner of the kitchen, the two of them hunching their shoulders, their faces toward each other, the shape of a heart.
I think about eating to give myself something to do besides standing in the center of the room, smiling like the new kid in the lunchroom.
But almost everything is gone. Some potato-chip shards sit in the bottom of a giant Tupperware bowl. A supermarket deli tray full of hoary carrots and gnarled celery and a semeny dip sits untouched on a coffee table, cigarettes littered throughout like bonus vegetable sticks. I am doing my thing, my impulse thing: What if I leap from the theater balcony right now? What if I tongue the homeless man across from me on the subway? What if I sit down on the floor of this party by myself and eat everything on that deli tray, including the cigarettes?
He is the kind of guy who carries himself like he gets laid a lot, a guy who likes women, a guy who would actually fuck me properly.
I would like to be fucked properly! The Fitzgerald fellows tend to be ineffectively porny in bed, a lot of noise and acrobatics to very little end. The finance guys turn rageful and flaccid. Pause while I count how many … eleven. Not bad. James has up to three other food items in his refrigerator.
I could make you an olive with mustard. Just one olive, though. It is a line that is only a little funny, but it already has the feel of an inside joke, one that will get funnier with nostalgic repetition. Then I catch myself. His name is Nick. I love it. It makes him seem nice, and regular, which he is. I catch three fourths of his movie references. Two thirds, maybe.
Note to self: Rent The Sure Thing. He refills my drink without me having to ask, somehow ferreting out one last cup of the good stuff. It feels nice, after my recent series of nervous, respectful post-feminist men, to be a territory. He should cough out yellow Tweety Bird feathers, the way he smiles at me. He talks to me in his river-wavy Missouri accent; he was born and raised outside of Hannibal, the boyhood home of Mark Twain, the inspiration for Tom Sawyer.
He tells me he worked on a steamboat when he was a teenager, dinner and jazz for the tourists. And when I laugh bratty, bratty New York girl who has never ventured to those big unwieldy middle states, those States Where Many Other People Live , he informs me that Missoura is a magical place, the most beautiful in the world, no state more glorious. His eyes are mischievous, his lashes are long.
I can see what he looked like as a boy. It is one a. As we turn the corner, the local bakery is getting its powdered sugar delivered, funneled into the cellar by the barrelful as if it were cement, and we can see nothing but the shadows of the deliverymen in the white, sweet cloud. His eyelashes are trimmed with powder, and before he leans in, he brushes the sugar from my lips so he can taste me. There was only one customer in the bar, sitting by herself at the far, far end: an older woman named Sue who had come in every Thursday with her husband until he died three months back.
Now she came alone every Thursday, never much for conversation, just sitting with a beer and a crossword, preserving a ritual. My sister was at work behind the bar, her hair pulled back in nerdy-girl barrettes, her arms pink as she dipped the beer glasses in and out of hot suds. Go is slender and strange-faced, which is not to say unattractive. Her features just take a moment to make sense: the broad jaw; the pinched, pretty nose; the dark globe eyes.
My twin, Go. We even have a dash of twin telepathy. Go is truly the one person in the entire world I am totally myself with.
I tell her as much as I can. We spent nine months back to back, covering each other. It became a lifelong habit. It never mattered to me that she was a girl, strange for a deeply self-conscious kid. What can I say? She was always just cool. I think they do.
She arched an eyebrow at me. When she caught me staring at the smudged rim, she brought the glass up to her mouth and licked the smudge away, leaving a smear of saliva.
She set the mug squarely in front of me. For my dad, a particularly unwanted stranger. She believes she was left to fend for herself throughout childhood, a pitiful creature of random hand-me-downs and forgotten permission slips, tightened budgets and general regret. This vision could be somewhat true; I can barely stand to admit it. I huddled over my beer.
I needed to sit and drink a beer or three. My nerves were still singing from the morning. The air-conditioning kicked on, ruffling the tops of our heads. We spent more time in The Bar than we needed to. It had become the childhood clubhouse we never had. Christmas in August. After Mom died, Go moved into our old house, and we slowly relocated our toys, piecemeal, to The Bar: a Strawberry Shortcake doll, now scentless, pops up on a stool one day my gift to Go.
We were thinking of introducing a board game night, even though most of our customers were too old to be nostalgic for our Hungry Hungry Hippos, our Game of Life with its tiny plastic cars to be filled with tiny plastic pinhead spouses and tiny plastic pinhead babies. Deep Hasbro thought for the day. Go refilled my beer, refilled her beer. Her left eyelid drooped slightly. She was one of the original dot-com phenoms — made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in Go remained unflappable.
She was closer to twenty than thirty; she was fine. For act two, she got her degree and joined the gray-suited world of investment banking. She was midlevel, nothing flashy, nothing blameful, but she lost her job — fast — with the financial meltdown. I begged her, cajoled her to return, hearing nothing but peeved silence on the other end.
The Bar seemed to cheer her up. She handled the books, she poured the beers. She stole from the tip jar semi-regularly, but then she did more work than me. We never talked about our old lives. We were Dunnes, and we were done, and strangely content about it. Eh, bad? You look bad. It was an easy question. I shrugged again — a confirmation this time, a whatcha gonna do?
Go gave me her amused face, both elbows on the bar, hands cradling chin, hunkering down for an incisive dissection of my marriage. Go, an expert panel of one. She smoked exactly one a day. She murders Desi after seducing him and returns to her husband, who is out on bond. Upon her return, she fabricates a story that she had been kidnapped and imprisoned by Desi. Although Nick knows she's lying, he has no proof and is forced to return to married life with Amy as the media storm dies down.
Though forced to remain with his wife, Nick soon begins writing a memoir detailing Amy's crimes and deceptions. Aware of Nick's intentions to expose her lies, Amy uses Nick's semen they had saved at a fertility clinic to make herself pregnant. She then forces him to delete his book by threatening to keep him from their unborn child. In the end, Nick deletes his memoir and chooses to stay with Amy for his child's sake.
He worked as a journalist in New York City until he was laid off. She is very beautiful but proves to be a clever and sinister psychopath who is always three steps ahead of her enemies. She is the source of inspiration for her parents' "Amazing Amy" book series. She made a living in New York as a writer for personality quizzes and met Nick at a writers' party; they marry after two years of dating, and the marriage starts out great until they both get laid off, her parents ask for financial help, and she and Nick move to North Carthage, Missouri, after no longer being able to afford living in New York City.
After that, she becomes very resentful toward Nick.
He is described by Nick as having "fleshy bags under his eyes" and "scraggly white whiskers in his mustache. She has a younger brother whom she "dotes on," and is the mother of a teenaged daughter, Mia. Andie met Nick as a student in his magazine-writing class, and their affair began 15 months before Amy's disappearance. She remains loyal to Nick throughout the murder investigation, despite her suspicions. He is eventually murdered by Amy near the end of the novel. Her other two books were about people incapable of making commitments, but in this novel, she tried to depict the ultimate commitment, marriage: "I liked the idea of marriage told as a he-said, she-said story, and told by two narrators who were perhaps not to be trusted.
Like Dunne, she was a popular culture writer. Also, like Dunne, she was laid off after many years at the same job.
I definitely wove that sense of unrest and nervousness into Nick's character. In that essay, Flynn confesses to sadistic childhood impulses like "stunning ants and feeding them to spiders.
The same essay argues that women fail to acknowledge their own violent impulses and incorporate them into their personal narratives, though men tend to cherish stories of their childhood meanness. Flynn said she admired the "ominous" ending of Notes on a Scandal and the pathology of a bad marriage from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. For the conclusion of Gone Girl, Flynn drew from Rosemary's Baby : "I love that it just ends with, you know, 'Hey, the devil's in the world, and guess what?
Mom kind of likes him! However, she tries not to read any one genre exclusively, and she also admires Joyce Carol Oates , Margaret Atwood , T. Boyle , and Arthur Phillips , who are better known as realistic contemporary writers. A Reader's Digest review, for instance, notes that the book is "more than just a crime novel". The review goes on to describe Gone Girl as a "masterful psychological thriller" which offers "an astute and thought-provoking look into two complex personalities".
However, the novel does more with these devices than the thriller genre requires: "While serving their usual functions, they also do much more, launching us into an unnerving dissection of the fallout of failed dreams. The characters lie to each other and the reader about affairs and disappearances. Amy fabricates a fake diary to implicate her husband for her disappearance and murder.
Flynn says that, in writing the book, she wanted to examine how people within a marriage lie to each other: "marriage is sort of like a long con, because you put on display your very best self during courtship, yet at the same time the person you marry is supposed to love you warts and all. But your spouse never sees those warts really until you get deeper into the marriage and let yourself unwind a bit. For some, it is in this monologue that the otherwise despised Amazing Amy emerges as an unlikely heroine of sorts; flying the flag for women who refuse to succumb to the pressure to morph into the male's ideal.
Nick seems guilty due to media coverage before a trial occurs.