Read Gone Girl eBook onlie. The book is wrote by Gillian Flynn. , the sun climbed over the skyline of oaks, revealing its full summer angry-God self. “Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl is like Scenes from a Marriage remade by Alfred Hitchcock, an elaborate trap that's always surprising and full of characters who are. Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn You know those books that are a complete chore to read?.

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In this exclusive selection from the book's opening, we meet Nick and Amy, the seemingly The Marriage Is The Real Mystery In 'Gone Girl' the sun climbed over the skyline of oaks, revealing its full summer angry-god self. The less you know about the details of this book, the more you benefit from the harrowing Where can I find a full version PDF of “Gone Girl”?. Gone Girl's toxic mix of sharp-edged wit and deliciously chilling prose creates a 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. Read full review.

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.

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

But truly, it was a practical decision, a smart business move. Amy and I both needed new careers; this would be mine. She would pick one someday, or not, but in the meantime, here was an income, made possible by the last of Amy's trust fund.

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.

Maybe that's why I was so insistent on downloading it after being stripped of my livelihood.

It's a reminder that I am, after all, an adult, a grown man, a useful human being, even though I lost the career that made me all these things. I won't make that mistake again: But there's no app for a bourbon buzz on a warm day in a cool, dark bar. 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 back bar, dragon heads and angel faces emerging from the oak—an extravagant work of wood in these shitty plastic days.

And jovial: We share a parking lot with the local bowling alley, and when our door swings wide, the clatter of strikes applauds the customer's entrance.

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. We pictured the locals scrunching their noses: Why'd you name it The Bar?

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 town wasn't prosperous, not anymore, not by a long shot. Hell, it wasn't even original, being one of two Carthage, Missouris—ours is technically North Carthage, which makes it sound like a twin city, although it's hundreds of miles from the other and the lesser of the two: 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. That's what I've always loved about our town: We aren't built on some safe bluff overlooking the Mississippi—we are on the Mississippi. I could walk down the road and step right into the sucker, an easy three-foot drop, and be on my way to Tennessee. Every building downtown bears hand-drawn lines from where the river hit during the Flood of '61,'75, '84, '93, '07, '08, ' And so on.

The river wasn't swollen now, but it was running urgently, in strong ropy currents. 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.

By the time I'd gone twenty feet, my neck bubbled with sweat. The sun was still an angry eye in the sky. Tra and la! 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. It's not New Year's, but still very much the new year. It's winter: Now, I like a writer party, I like writers, I am the child of writers, I am a writer. I'm using this journal to get better: To show don't tell and all that other writery crap. Adopted-orphan smile, I mean, that's not bad, come on. But really, I do think my quizzes alone qualify me on at least an honorary basis.

You merely write quizzes for women's rags. When someone asks what you do for a living, you: I am the inspiration for a beloved children's-book series, I'm sure you know it, Amazing Amy? Yeah, so suck it, snobdouche! Anyway, the party is being thrown by one of Carmen's good friends who writes about movies for a movie magazine, and is very funny, according to Carmen.

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 love- jackal. I'm too self-conscious otherwise. I feel myself trying to be charming, and then I realize I'm obviously trying to be charming, and then I try to be even more charming to make up for the fake charm, and then I've basically turned into Liza Minnelli: I'm dancing in tights and sequins, begging you to love me.

There's a bowler and jazz hands and lots of teeth. Franz Ferdinand on the stereo: A clump of guys hovers near a card table where all the alcohol is set up, tipping more booze into their cups after every few sips, all too aware of how little is left to go around. 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.

A lethal-looking bottle of green-apple liqueur, the host's ironic download, will soon be our fate unless someone makes a booze run, and that seems unlikely, as everyone clearly believes they made the run last time. 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. 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? 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! My dating life seems to rotate around three types of men: The smart-boys fuck like they're composing a piece of math rock: I sound quite slutty, don't I?

Pause while I count how many. Not bad. I've always thought twelve was a solid, reasonable number to end at. James has up to three other food items in his refrigerator.

First Reads

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. I think: A year from now, we will be walking along the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset and one of us will whisper, "Just one olive, though," and we'll start to laugh.

Then I catch myself. If he knew I was doing a year from now already, he'd run and I'd be obliged to cheer him on.

Mainly, I will admit, I smile because he's gorgeous. Distractingly gorgeous, the kind of looks that make your eyes pinwheel, that make you want to just address the elephant—"You know you're gorgeous, right? I bet dudes hate him: He doesn't act that way, though.

His name is Nick. I love it. It makes him seem nice, and regular, which he is. When he tells me his name, I say, "Now, that's a real name. He makes a series of awful puns. I catch three-fourths of his movie references. Two-thirds, maybe. Note to self: Rent The Sure Thing. It feels nice, after my recent series of nervous, respectful post-feminist men, to be a territory.

He has a great smile, a cat's smile. He should cough out yellow Tweety Bird feathers, the way he smiles at me. I'm a writer, did I mention? 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. His eyes are mischievous, his lashes are long. I can see what he looked like as a boy.

We share a taxi home, the streetlights making dizzy shadows and the car speeding as if we're being chased. 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. There was only one customer in the bar, sitting by herself at the far, far end: 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: If this were a period movie, a man would tilt back his fedora, whistle at the sight of her, and say, "Now, there's a helluva broad! Things might not be great, but things would be okay. My twin, Go. I've said this phrase so many times, it has become a reassuring mantra instead of actual words: We were born in the '70s, back when twins were rare, a bit magical: We even have a dash of twin telepathy.

Go is truly the one person in the entire world I am totally myself with. I don't feel the need to explain my actions to her.

I don't clarify, I don't doubt, I don't worry. I don't tell her everything, not anymore, but I tell her more than anyone else, by far. 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.

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. 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.

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: I couldn't remember how you won. Deep Hasbro thought for the day.

Exclusive First Read: 'Gone Girl' By Gillian Flynn

Her left eyelid drooped slightly. It was exactly noon, , and I wondered how long she'd been drinking. She's had a bumpy decade. She was one of the original dot-com phenoms—made crazy money for two years, then took the Internet bubble bath in For act two, she got her degree and joined the gray-suited world of investment banking. I didn't even know she'd left New York until she phoned me from Mom's house: I give up.

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. It was an easy question. Go, an expert panel of one.

She smoked exactly one a day. She'd been a bridesmaid, all in violet—"the gorgeous, raven-haired, amethyst-draped dame, " Amy's mother had dubbed her—but anniversaries weren't something she'd remember. That came fast. It was what her dad always did for her mom on their anniversary, and don't think I don't see the gender roles here, that I don't get the hint.

But I did not grow up in Amy's household, I grew up in mine, and the last present I remember my dad giving my mom was an iron, set on the kitchen counter, no wrapping paper.

The problem with Amy's treasure hunts: That was my best year. The opening parley:. Ever been in a spelling bee as a kid? That snowy second after the announcement of the word as you sift your brain to see if you can spell it?

It was like that, the blank panic. I bit the side of my lip, started a shrug, scanning our living room as if the answer might appear. She gave me another very long minute. The place was the point. The moment. I just thought it was special.

Exclusive First Read: 'Gone Girl' By Gillian Flynn

Let's go do it again at McMann's. Pearl suggested Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, a novel due out this week. I could not sleep the night after I read it. I put it down two days later, bleary-eyed and oh-so-satisfied after reading a story that left me surprised, disgusted, and riveted by its twists and turns… A good story presents a reader with a problem that has to be resolved and a few surprises along the way.

A great story gives a reader a problem and leads you along a path, then dumps you off a cliff and into a jungle of plot twists, character revelations and back stories that you could not have imagined. Gone Girl does just that. I can say that Gone Girl is an ingenious whodunit for both the Facebook generation and old-school mystery buffs.

She is a Gothic storyteller for the Internet age. This thriller is told in alternating voices, a risky form of narrative that works masterfully here because the characters are so distinct and convincing….

The second half takes readers on a calculated descent into madness. How does a couple go from uttering passionate vows to living separate lives?

I read it in two days, nonstop, useless for anything but my own incredible pleasure. Gone Girl is a fast-paced, always surprising page-turner of a book… Gone Girl is a superbly crafted novel by a talented and daring young writer and it will keep you guessing until the very last sentence.

Veteran mystery readers may see as far as the opening of the second act, but Flynn has more surprises in store on her way to the sucker-punch of an ending. It is, in a word, amazing. The final pages are chilling.

As evidenced by her previous work Sharp Objects , , and Dark Places , , she possesses a disturbing worldview, one considerably amped up by her twisted sense of humor. It contains so many twists and turns that the outcome is impossible to predict. The reader comes to discover their layers of deceit through a process similar to that at work in the imploding relationship. Compulsively readable, creepily unforgettable, this is a must read for any fan of bad girls and good writing.

This is a wonderful and terrifying book about how the happy surface normality and the underlying darkness can become too closely interwoven to separate. We all know the story, right? How did we get from there to here? Considering how compulsively I kept coming back for more, I am seriously thinking of going back to page one and doing it all again.

Gone Girl is delicious and intoxicating and delightfully poisonous. The writing is jarringly good, and the story is, well… amazing. Gillian Flynn is a thrilling writer. Flynn Sharp Objects , Dark Places lays down a vivid and plainspoken narrative that can read like the most jet-fueled of airport thrillers but is still bejeweled with sparkling asides and dead-on commentary.

Her writing is, as needed, funny, perceptive, headslappingly honest, or sometimes an amalgam of the three.

That this all happens in a book whose plot seems at first ripped from a Dateline NBC true crime is all the more impressive. The novel references other books, little Easter eggs nestled in the plot.

An addictive read. Told from two perspectives, Gone Girl forces you to ask yourself, what would you do and who dunnit? Gone Girl is a fast-paced, always surprising page-turner of a book.

Gone Girl is a superbly crafted novel by a talented and daring young writer and it will keep you guessing until the very last sentence. You begin by thinking that all marriages are a bit like this: But then the psycho-drama creeps up on you with chilling power.

A five-star suspense mystery. Flynn keeps the accelerator firmly to the floor, ratcheting up the tension with wildly unexpected plot twists, contradictory stories and the tantalizing feeling that nothing is as it seems.

Deviously good. Join Reader Rewards and earn your way to a free book! Join Reader Rewards and earn points when you download this book from your favorite retailer. Read An Excerpt. Paperback 2 —. download the Audiobook Download: Apple Audible downpour eMusic audiobooks.How can I not praise a book that so cleverly pulls apart the minds of a husband and wife? Happy anniversary, asshole. Amy was gone.

Their few meetings had left them both baffled. What can I say?

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