Thrillers & Suspense
![Gillian Flynn - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001JP3W46.jpg)
Gone Girl
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The "mercilessly entertaining" (Vanity Fair) instant classic "about the nature of identity and the terrible secrets that can survive and thrive in even the most intimate relationships" (Lev Grossman, Time).
NAMED ONE OF THE MOST INFLUENTIAL BOOKS OF THE DECADE BY CNN • NAMED ONE OF TIME'S TEN BEST FICTION BOOKS OF THE DECADE AND ONE OF ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY'S BEST BOOKS OF THE DECADE
NAMED ONE OF THE TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY Janet Maslin, The New York Times • People • Entertainment Weekly • O: The Oprah Magazine • Slate • Kansas City Star • USA Today • Christian Science Monitor
On a warm summer morning in North Carthage, Missouri, it is Nick and Amy Dunne's fifth wedding anniversary. Presents are being wrapped and reservations are being made when Nick's clever and beautiful wife disappears. Husband-of-the-Year Nick isn't doing himself any favors with cringe-worthy daydreams about the slope and shape of his wife's head, but passages from Amy's diary reveal the alpha-girl perfectionist could have put anyone dangerously on edge. Under mounting pressure from the police and the media-as well as Amy's fiercely doting parents-the town golden boy parades an endless series of lies, deceits, and inappropriate behavior. Nick is oddly evasive, and he's definitely bitter-but is he really a killer?
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY San Francisco Chronicle • St. Louis Post Dispatch • Chicago Tribune • HuffPost • Newsday
"Absorbing . . . In masterly fashion, Flynn depicts the unraveling of a marriage-and of a recession-hit Midwest-by interweaving the wife's diary entries with the husband's first-person account."-New Yorker
"Ms. Flynn writes dark suspense novels that anatomize violence without splashing barrels of blood around the pages . . . Ms. Flynn has much more up her sleeve than a simple missing-person case. As Nick and Amy alternately tell their stories, marriage has never looked so menacing, narrators so unreliable."-The Wall Street Journal
"The story unfolds in precise and riveting prose . . . even while you know you're being manipulated, searching for the missing pieces is half the thrill of this wickedly absorbing tale."-O: The Oprah Magazine
NAMED ONE OF THE MOST INFLUENTIAL BOOKS OF THE DECADE BY CNN • NAMED ONE OF TIME'S TEN BEST FICTION BOOKS OF THE DECADE AND ONE OF ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY'S BEST BOOKS OF THE DECADE
NAMED ONE OF THE TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY Janet Maslin, The New York Times • People • Entertainment Weekly • O: The Oprah Magazine • Slate • Kansas City Star • USA Today • Christian Science Monitor
On a warm summer morning in North Carthage, Missouri, it is Nick and Amy Dunne's fifth wedding anniversary. Presents are being wrapped and reservations are being made when Nick's clever and beautiful wife disappears. Husband-of-the-Year Nick isn't doing himself any favors with cringe-worthy daydreams about the slope and shape of his wife's head, but passages from Amy's diary reveal the alpha-girl perfectionist could have put anyone dangerously on edge. Under mounting pressure from the police and the media-as well as Amy's fiercely doting parents-the town golden boy parades an endless series of lies, deceits, and inappropriate behavior. Nick is oddly evasive, and he's definitely bitter-but is he really a killer?
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY San Francisco Chronicle • St. Louis Post Dispatch • Chicago Tribune • HuffPost • Newsday
"Absorbing . . . In masterly fashion, Flynn depicts the unraveling of a marriage-and of a recession-hit Midwest-by interweaving the wife's diary entries with the husband's first-person account."-New Yorker
"Ms. Flynn writes dark suspense novels that anatomize violence without splashing barrels of blood around the pages . . . Ms. Flynn has much more up her sleeve than a simple missing-person case. As Nick and Amy alternately tell their stories, marriage has never looked so menacing, narrators so unreliable."-The Wall Street Journal
"The story unfolds in precise and riveting prose . . . even while you know you're being manipulated, searching for the missing pieces is half the thrill of this wickedly absorbing tale."-O: The Oprah Magazine
Editorial Reviews
"Ice-pick-sharp . . . spectacularly sneaky . . . impressively cagey . . . Gone Girl is Ms. Flynn's dazzling breakthrough. It is wily, mercurial, subtly layered and populated by characters so well imagined that they're hard to part with."-Janet Maslin, The New York Times
"An ingenious and viperish thriller . . . Even as Gone Girl grows truly twisted and wild, it says smart things about how tenuous power relations are between men and women, and how often couples are at the mercy of forces beyond their control. As if that weren't enough, Flynn has created a genuinely creepy villain you don't see coming. People love to talk about the banality of evil. You're about to meet a maniac you could fall in love with." -Jeff Giles, Entertainment Weekly
"An irresistible summer thriller with a twisting plot worthy of Alfred Hitchcock. Burrowing deep into the murkiest corners of the human psyche, this delectable summer read will give you the creeps and keep you on edge until the last page."-People (four stars)
"It's simply fantastic: terrifying, darkly funny and at times moving. . . . [Gone Girl is] her most intricately twisted and deliciously sinister story, dangerous for any reader who prefers to savor a novel as opposed to consuming it whole in one sitting."-Michelle Weiner, Associated Press
"Gillian Flynn's third novel is both breakneck-paced thriller and masterful dissection of marital breakdown. . . . Wickedly plotted and surprisingly thoughtful, this is a terrifically good read."-Boston Globe
"Gone Girl is that rare thing: a book that thrills and delights while holding up a mirror to how we live. . . . Through her two ultimately unreliable narrators, Flynn masterfully weaves the slow trickle of critical details with 90-degree plot turns. . . . Timely, poignant and emotionally rich, Gone Girl will peel away your comfort levels even as you root for its protagonists-despite your best intuition." -San Francisco Chronicle
"Gillian Flynn's barbed and brilliant Gone Girl has two deceitful, disturbing, irresistible narrators and a plot that twists so many times you'll be dizzy."-Minneapolis Star-Tribune
"Flynn is a master manipulator, deftly fielding multiple unreliable narrators, sardonic humor, and social satire in a story of a marriage gone wrong that makes black comedies like The War of the Rosesand Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf look like scenes from a honeymoon. . . . It is, in a word, amazing."-Yvonne Zipp,Christian Science Monitor
"Gone...
"An ingenious and viperish thriller . . . Even as Gone Girl grows truly twisted and wild, it says smart things about how tenuous power relations are between men and women, and how often couples are at the mercy of forces beyond their control. As if that weren't enough, Flynn has created a genuinely creepy villain you don't see coming. People love to talk about the banality of evil. You're about to meet a maniac you could fall in love with." -Jeff Giles, Entertainment Weekly
"An irresistible summer thriller with a twisting plot worthy of Alfred Hitchcock. Burrowing deep into the murkiest corners of the human psyche, this delectable summer read will give you the creeps and keep you on edge until the last page."-People (four stars)
"It's simply fantastic: terrifying, darkly funny and at times moving. . . . [Gone Girl is] her most intricately twisted and deliciously sinister story, dangerous for any reader who prefers to savor a novel as opposed to consuming it whole in one sitting."-Michelle Weiner, Associated Press
"Gillian Flynn's third novel is both breakneck-paced thriller and masterful dissection of marital breakdown. . . . Wickedly plotted and surprisingly thoughtful, this is a terrifically good read."-Boston Globe
"Gone Girl is that rare thing: a book that thrills and delights while holding up a mirror to how we live. . . . Through her two ultimately unreliable narrators, Flynn masterfully weaves the slow trickle of critical details with 90-degree plot turns. . . . Timely, poignant and emotionally rich, Gone Girl will peel away your comfort levels even as you root for its protagonists-despite your best intuition." -San Francisco Chronicle
"Gillian Flynn's barbed and brilliant Gone Girl has two deceitful, disturbing, irresistible narrators and a plot that twists so many times you'll be dizzy."-Minneapolis Star-Tribune
"Flynn is a master manipulator, deftly fielding multiple unreliable narrators, sardonic humor, and social satire in a story of a marriage gone wrong that makes black comedies like The War of the Rosesand Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf look like scenes from a honeymoon. . . . It is, in a word, amazing."-Yvonne Zipp,Christian Science Monitor
"Gone...
Readers Top Reviews
Stacey G
It's been a long time since I read a psychological thriller and so I have had this at the top of the genre on my tbr for a while. It took me a good 15/20% to get into the story but once I did I was hooked. I have to admit up until then I kept changing my mind about what happened but then it started becoming quite obvious. It was around this point that I started changing my feelings towards the main characters - Nick & Amy - too. At first I was disliking one and warmed to the other, but then it completely reversed even with everything that kept coming out of the woodwork about them. Go though - I absoutely loved her and her wit all the way through! I enjoyed the story but I wasn't totally struck on the writing style. I found the use of so many brackets quite distracting as I had to go back and reread the sentence at points. I did like the diary format though and it wasn't confusing for me going from past to present. The ending was a bit abrupt, though I think the story was the right length and there would have been information overload if it carried on. All in all it was a gripping read and a 4* from me.
HelenRamona custome
I found this book disappointing. I was recommended it highly by a relative, it had been praised to the skies, and made into a successful film. I thought it was....OK. It held my interest, but I can't say I loved it. For a start, I loathe unreliable narrators; I feel it's a trend that is going too far, was interesting the first time it was done, but now just makes me feel...cheated, I suppose is the nearest word. And both the main characters were so unlikable and so unbelievable that I stopped caring about them part way through the book. It's well written, I'll give it that. I was told the plot had amazing twists - well, sorry, no, it doesn't; I guessed a lot of it in advance. So, to repeat myself...it's OK, but that's all.
Pauline O'Connelltar
I'm probably one of the very few people that didn't like this book, but I struggled with it. It was highly recommended to me and I asked one of my friends if she had read it and if she liked it. She hesitated telling me how she felt about the book, but came up with, "Well, I didn't like the characters." When I finished the book, that was the best way I could describe my impression too - I hated the characters!
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
Nick Dunne
the day of
When I think of my wife, I always think of her head. 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 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? The question I've asked
most often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person
who could answer. I 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?
My eyes flipped open at exactly six a.m. This was no avian fluttering
of the lashes, no gentle blink toward consciousness. The awakening
was mechanical. A spooky ventriloquist- dummy click of the lids:
The world is black and then, showtime! 6- 0- 0 the clock said- in my
face, first thing I saw. 6- 0- 0. It felt different. I rarely woke at such a
rounded time. I was a man of jagged risings: 8:43, 11:51, 9:26. My
life was alarmless.
At that exact moment, 6- 0- 0, the sun climbed over the skyline of
oaks, revealing its full summer angry- god self. Its reflection flared
across the river toward our house, a long, blaring finger aimed at me
through our frail bedroom curtains. Accusing: You have been seen.
You will be seen.
I wallowed in bed, which was our New York bed in our new house,
which we still called the new house, even though we'd been back here
for two years. 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. It had been a compromise: Amy demanded we rent, not buy,
in my little Missouri hometown, in her firm hope that we wouldn't
be stuck here long. 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. It was a compromise, but Amy didn't see it that
way, not in the least. 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. I suppose it's not a compromise if only one of
you considers it such, but that was what our compromises tended to
look like. 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. I'd arrived in New York in
the late '90s, the last gasp of the glory days, although no one knew it
then. New York was packed with writers, real writers, because there
were magazines, real magazines, loads of them. This was back when
the Internet was still some exotic pet kept in the corner of the publishing
world- throw some kibble at it, watch it dance on its little leash,
oh quite cute, it definitely won't kill us in the night. 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.
I had a job for eleven years and then I didn't, it was that fast. All
around the country, magazines began shuttering, succumbing to
a sudden infection brought on by the busted economy. Writers (my
kind of writers: aspiring novelists, ruminative thinkers, people whose
brains don't work quick enough to blog or link or tweet, basically old,
stubborn blowhards) were through. We were like...
Nick Dunne
the day of
When I think of my wife, I always think of her head. 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 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? The question I've asked
most often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person
who could answer. I 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?
My eyes flipped open at exactly six a.m. This was no avian fluttering
of the lashes, no gentle blink toward consciousness. The awakening
was mechanical. A spooky ventriloquist- dummy click of the lids:
The world is black and then, showtime! 6- 0- 0 the clock said- in my
face, first thing I saw. 6- 0- 0. It felt different. I rarely woke at such a
rounded time. I was a man of jagged risings: 8:43, 11:51, 9:26. My
life was alarmless.
At that exact moment, 6- 0- 0, the sun climbed over the skyline of
oaks, revealing its full summer angry- god self. Its reflection flared
across the river toward our house, a long, blaring finger aimed at me
through our frail bedroom curtains. Accusing: You have been seen.
You will be seen.
I wallowed in bed, which was our New York bed in our new house,
which we still called the new house, even though we'd been back here
for two years. 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. It had been a compromise: Amy demanded we rent, not buy,
in my little Missouri hometown, in her firm hope that we wouldn't
be stuck here long. 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. It was a compromise, but Amy didn't see it that
way, not in the least. 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. I suppose it's not a compromise if only one of
you considers it such, but that was what our compromises tended to
look like. 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. I'd arrived in New York in
the late '90s, the last gasp of the glory days, although no one knew it
then. New York was packed with writers, real writers, because there
were magazines, real magazines, loads of them. This was back when
the Internet was still some exotic pet kept in the corner of the publishing
world- throw some kibble at it, watch it dance on its little leash,
oh quite cute, it definitely won't kill us in the night. 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.
I had a job for eleven years and then I didn't, it was that fast. All
around the country, magazines began shuttering, succumbing to
a sudden infection brought on by the busted economy. Writers (my
kind of writers: aspiring novelists, ruminative thinkers, people whose
brains don't work quick enough to blog or link or tweet, basically old,
stubborn blowhards) were through. We were like...
