Gillian Flynn

Sharp Objects: A Novel

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  • maruușkihas quoted4 years ago
    Safer to be feared than loved,” I said.

    “Machiavelli,”
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    I am learning to be cared for. I am learning to be parented. I’ve returned to my childhood, the scene of the crime.
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    All sharp objects have been locked up, but I haven’t tried too hard to get at them.
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    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 out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip. Women get consumed. Not surprising, considering the sheer amount of traffic a woman’s body experiences.
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    To refuse has so many more consequences than submitting.
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    My mother had cut me open and was unpacking my organs, stacking them in a row on my bed as my flesh flapped to either side. She was sewing her initials into each of them, then tossing them back into me, along with a passel of forgotten objects
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    When everyone’s asleep and everything’s quiet, it’s easier.
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    Because that means the day has ended. I like checking days off a calendar—151 days crossed and nothing truly horrible has happened. 152 and the world isn’t ruined. 153 and I haven’t destroyed anyone. 154 and no one really hates me. Sometimes I think I won’t ever feel safe until I can count my last days on one hand. Three more days to get through until I don’t have to worry about life anymore.
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    I always feel sad for the girl that I was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me.
  • Lunahas quoted8 months ago
    As a child, I struggled to find a solid resemblance between my mother and myself, some link that would prove I came from her. I’d study her when she wasn’t looking, steal the framed portraits from her room and try to convince myself I had her eyes. Or maybe it was something not in the face. The turn of a calf or the hollow of my neck.
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