Jul 10, Index of /~jarkoh/Books/Others/Fiction 0/usaascvb.info GIRL - Gillian Flynn. Sep 28, Gone Girl: A Novel Click button below to download or read this book. Description. A PHP Error was encountered Severity: Notice Message. Original Download Link: usaascvb.info usaascvb.info
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GONE usaascvb.info - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf) or read book online. Oct 6, DOWNLOAD in #PDF Gone Girl PDF Books #EPUB By Gillian Flynn” is published by wryafsghy. Gone Girl: A Novel By #Gillian #Flynn Free PDF, ePub Download. With her razor- sharp writing and trademark psychological insight, Gillian Flynn delivers a.
Amy Elliott Dunne: August 23, Nick Dunne: Two Days Gone Amy Elliott Dunne: September 15, Nick Dunne: Three Days Gone Amy Elliott Dunne: October 16, Nick Dunne: Four Days Gone Amy Elliott Dunne: April 28, Amy Elliott Dunne: July 21, Nick Dunne: Five Days Gone Amy Elliott Dunne: August 17, Amy Elliott Dunne: October 21, Nick Dunne: Six Days Gone A terrible book, what a disappointment! The two main characters are despicable but for different reasons.
She is a vicious control freak who comes out smelling like a rose in spite of all her inexcusable criminal actions and she receives no punishment or other blame. He is a nice guy but is weak by allowing himself to be controlled by her. At one point in the story, after she has humiliated him in many ways and they have gotten back together, she tells him to take his clothes off and get in the shower with her, he meekly obeys her.
This is not a romantic situation either. The author uses the f--k word excessively, it is degrading and not necessary. Finally, the ending of the story is terrible. She connives to get pregnant and he goes bonkers because he is going to be a father of a boy even though she has humiliated and tricked him in many ways.
A terrible ending to might have been an interesting story. So I can't remember the last time I read a thriller, or if any of the books I've read prior to this one even qualified as a thriller.
I took a chance because the last fantasy book I read, I hated, while damn near the entire rest of the fantasy community loved it, convincing me I must have something wrong. In short, here's a review of the thriller Gone Girl by non-thriller reader. I'll be right up front and say the first half of this novel was quite a slog. Then things hit the fan, and I gotta say, it was pretty exciting to read. How exciting, you ask? Exciting enough that when I got finished with my workout at 3pm, I looked at TV, my video games, all my chores, and grabbed up my kindle and went to reading.
I read for five straight hours, sitting on my bed, like I was a little kid again before video game consoles ever existed, unable to put this book down.
That's how exciting it was. Then the ending hit, and that ending just absolutely sucked. It feels like Flynn was just writing along, and then out of nowhere goes "Yeah, that'll do. Not even a cliffhanger, more like you were watching a movie and then just randomly clicked it off halfway through with no intentions of finishing.
It left me totally bewildered and unfulfilled. I haven't read a book like that since A Clash of Kings, and if I'm not going to give a 5 star rating to a book that makes me read for 5 hours straight, then my standards are all jacked up.
So yeah, in short, first half was so-so, ending sucked, but that last half is gripping and such a ride that it makes it all worth it. I think I'll try another thriller.
That is all. I was not going to read this novel. To be honest I didn't know it was one until I was talking to my mother in law and I thought we were talking about the movie until she said "didn't you hate them both in the end? Honestly the reason I saw the movie was that I was pregnant, craving movie theater popcorn not the stuff they try to claim is movie theater popcorn that you make in the microwave and it was a very compelling preview because I love true crime and while not true it was very reminiscent of the stories that captivated me to that genre.
Long story short: Great flick. Bought the book at my mother in law's insistence and I had a newborn that needed a lot of holding so plenty of time to read with him laying on my chest.
I could not put this book down. I dare say it was better than the movie but like one other not going to say example I feel like they made each other better. When I say I could not put this book down I mean in all of the newborn exhaustion I made this my second priority to keeping my child alive.
The only reason it took me four days to read it is I had the original kindle with no backlight and at some point your body decides it is going to sleep whether you like it or not. This is one of the rare cases when I recommend seeing the movie and reading the book. I saw the movie first and the book made it better. If you have seen the movie but are afraid the book is going to ruin it as is so often the case you should totally read this. I am actually not sure if it would work the other way around but if you saw the flick you should totally read the novel from whence it came.
Gillian Flynn you have only written three novels.
Please write! I need more. See all 44, reviews. site Giveaway allows you to run promotional giveaways in order to create buzz, reward your audience, and attract new followers and customers.
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Word Wise: Enhanced Typesetting: Page Flip: Audible book: Enabled Word Wise: Enabled Lending: Not Enabled Screen Reader: Supported Enhanced Typesetting: 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.