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)-now featuring never-before-published deleted scenes
NAMED ONE OF THE MOST INFLUENTIAL BOOKS OF THE DECADE BY CNN AND ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE DECADE BY TIME AND ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY
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 • The Chicago Tribune • HuffPost • Newsday
NAMED ONE OF THE MOST INFLUENTIAL BOOKS OF THE DECADE BY CNN AND ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE DECADE BY TIME AND ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY
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 • The Chicago Tribune • HuffPost • Newsday
Editorial Reviews
"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."-The 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
"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 ...
"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
"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 ...
Readers Top Reviews
customer
Some reviews on this page are for the author's other novels. This one is for Gone Girl. I agree this is a book you just can't put down. I've deducted one star because (a) I found Amy's character confusing up to the point where she reveals her true self. There was no explanation for some of Nick's comments like feeling awful because he tried to kiss her shoulder while she was asleep. But worse for me was that after 90 per cent of the book being like hurtling on a high speed train towards a dramatic conclusion, the dramatic conclusion didn't happen and the story kind of fizzled out like a damp squib. SPOILER ALERT - look away now if you haven't read the book. I felt the 'he said she said' format became quite annoying after Amy's return, and although it's entirely believable that they stayed together because of her evil power over him, it would have been a better ending if the power had become sexual and he had learned to take a masochistic pleasure in her enslavement of him - perhaps becoming like Desi.
HelenRamonaDerick
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.
Kindle HelenRamo
Let me start off this review by issuing a massive SPOILER WARNING for a novel that came out a little less than a decade ago. There will be major spoilers ahead, so I would advise you to read this book (if you, like me, have been living under a rock for the past 8 years or so) before looking at this review.. As a matter of fact, this won’t be as much of a review, instead, it’ll be a series of my reactions to a couple of things in the story. I was meaning to read this book in 2015 after I read and enjoyed Paula Hawkins’s “The Girl on The Train”. I’ve heard many people comparing that book to this one and I wanted to see how similar the two were. In my opinion, I didn’t get as much similarities as I was expecting, but they were both enjoyable psychological thrillers. Anyways, Gone Girl has been in my library for a while and I finally decided to read it. I’ll have to admit, about halfway through, I had a strong feeling that I would be giving this book 5 stars. It literally grabbed me from the beginning and never let me go. All the high praise I've heard about it throughout the years didn't do this story justice. The first -I wanna say- half of this book is the main story. Married woman mysteriously disappears, and the husband is left to find out what happened to his wife. However, the story changes point of views from the husband to the wife’s perspective through a series of diary entries she wrote, and I have to admit. I was completely fooled! As the story goes on, I’m wondering who kidnapped this man’s wife. I started gathering suspects right off the bat. The neighbor who informed Nick that the door was open. He was my number one suspect at first. Then I blamed the people from Amy’s past. For a brief moment, I thought Nick’s twin sister kidnapped her. I was just looking for answers and I knew the only way I would get my answer is if I keep reading. The beauty of mystery novels. So, for the first half of the book, I’m looking at all of the surrounding characters funny. Someone here is a murderer. And as I’m doing that, Amy’s diary entries begin to take a dark turn. She starts writing about Nick’s coldness. Nick becoming a completely new person than the guy she told us about in the first diary entry. He became someone who I honestly started to dislike. He treated her horribly, he even shows a weird abusive side. The later diary entries made me think that maybe HE did it all along and that’s the big twist. I also had a small thought that maybe she faked her kidnapping because he was so abusive and she wanted to escape him, but that seemed like it wouldn’t be it, so I shoved that theory to the side. Not like it mattered anyway. Lol. Turns out, I was half-right with that theory I pushed to the side. The whole time, I’m worried about this sweet, lovable woman and it turns out she staged the whole thing, knowing that...
Short Excerpt Teaser
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 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? 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 fi rst 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....
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 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? 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 fi rst 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....
