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Where can I find a full version PDF of “Gone Girl”? Views How did Gillian Flynn's husband react when he first read the book 'Gone Girl'? 1, Views. Gone Girl pdf To download now please click the link below. http://goo. gl/kr8kk Description: Marriage can be a real killer. One of the most critically acclaimed. Gone Girl online pdf To download now please click the link below. http://goo. gl/ kr8kk Description: Marriage can be a real killer. One of the most critically.

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GONE zetom.info - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf) or read book online. The Divergent Series Complete zetom.infoh - Veronica Roth. Uploaded by. Download a PDF copy of gone girl by Gillian Flynn before the movie is released. Gone Girl - dokument [*.pdf] To Brett: light of my life, senior and Flynn: light of my the sun climbed over the skyline of oaks, revealing its full summer angry-God.

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.

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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. Five years. That came fast. My wife loved games, mostly mind games, but also actual games of amusement, and for our anniversary she always set up an elaborate treasure hunt, with each clue leading to the hiding place of the next clue until I reached the end, and my present.

Our first anniversary, back in New York, I went two for seven. That was my best year. The opening parley: This place is a bit of a hole in the wall, But we had a great kiss there one Tuesday last fall.

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. I finished the shrug. You should have done a clue with Confucius, I would have gotten that.

The place was the point. The moment. I just thought it was special. I do not remember any of those conversations. By the time we got to the end of the day, to exchanging our actual presents — the traditional paper presents for the first year of marriage — Amy was not speaking to me. Amy was slipping through the Central Park crowds, maneuvering between laser-eyed joggers and scissor-legged skaters, kneeling parents and toddlers careering like drunks, always just ahead of me, tight-lipped, hurrying nowhere.

Me trying to catch up, grab her arm. Happy anniversary, asshole. It was a reverse O. Help me out. We all exchanged silent smiles as she walked out.

Then we both flushed pink in our cheeks in the same spot. It was the kind of raunchy, unsisterly joke that Go enjoyed tossing at me like a grenade. It was also the reason why, in high school, there were always rumors that we secretly screwed. We were too tight: our inside jokes, our edge-of-the-party whispers.

We just really like each other. Go was now pantomiming dick-slapping my wife. No, Amy and Go were never going to be friends. They were each too territorial. For two people who lived in the same city — the same city twice: first New York, now here — they barely knew each other. They flitted in and out of my life like well-timed stage actors, one going out the door as the other came in, and on the rare occasions when they both inhabited the same room, they seemed somewhat bemused at the situation.

And: You just seem kind of not yourself with her. And finally: The important thing is she makes you really happy. Back when Amy made me really happy. And: You just have to be in the right mood for her. Neither did. Go was funnier than Amy, though, so it was a mismatched battle. Amy was clever, withering, sarcastic. Amy could get me riled up, could make an excellent, barbed point, but Go always made me laugh.

It is dangerous to laugh at your spouse. Go took one more sip of her beer and answered, gave an eyeroll and a smile. Retired three years. Divorced two years. Moved into our development right after.

This was another thing I learned about Carl from his days in The Bar — that he was a functioning but serious alcoholic. The reasons were bogus.

Carl just needed to hear the clink of glasses, the glug of a drink being poured. I picked up the phone, shaking a tumbler of ice near the receiver so Carl could imagine his gin. I just thought you should know … your door is wide open, and that cat of yours is outside.

Driving into our development occasionally makes me shiver, the sheer number of gaping dark houses — homes that have never known inhabitants, or homes that have known owners and seen them ejected, the house standing triumphantly voided, humanless. When Amy and I moved in, our only neighbors descended on us: one middle-aged single mom of three, bearing a casserole; a young father of triplets with a six-pack of beer his wife left at home with the triplets ; an older Christian couple who lived a few houses down; and of course, Carl from across the street.

We sat out on our back deck and watched the river, and they all talked ruefully about ARMs, and zero percent interest, and zero money down, and then they all remarked how Amy and I were the only ones with river access, the only ones without children.

In this whole big house? Four months later, the whole big house lady lost her mortgage battle and disappeared in the night with her three kids.

Her house has remained empty. One evening not long ago, I drove past and saw a man, bearded, bedraggled, staring out from behind the picture, floating in the dark like some sad aquarium fish. He saw me see him and flickered back into the depths of the house. The next day I left a brown paper bag full of sandwiches on the front step; it sat in the sun untouched for a week, decaying wetly, until I picked it back up and threw it out.

The complex was always disturbingly quiet. As I neared our home, conscious of the noise of the car engine, I could see the cat was definitely on the steps. This was strange. The cat would waddle straight into the Mississippi River — deedle-de-dum — and float all the way to the Gulf of Mexico into the maw of a hungry bull shark.

Bleecker was perched on the edge of the porch, a pudgy but proud sentinel — Private Tryhard. As I pulled in to the drive, Carl came out and stood on his own front steps, and I could feel the cat and the old man both watching me as I got out of the car and walked toward the house, the red peonies along the border looking fat and juicy, asking to be devoured. I was about to go into blocking position to get the cat when I saw that the front door was open. Carl had said as much, but seeing it was different.

This was wide-gaping-ominous open. Carl hovered across the way, waiting for my response, and like some awful piece of performance art, I felt myself enacting Concerned Husband. No Amy. The ironing board was set up, the iron still on, a dress waiting to be pressed. I swerved into the living room, and pulled up short. The carpet glinted with shards of glass, the coffee table shattered. End tables were on their sides, books slid across the floor like a card trick.

Even the heavy antique ottoman was belly-up, its four tiny feet in the air like something dead. In the middle of the mess was a pair of good sharp scissors.

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Through the kitchen, where a kettle was burning, down to the basement, where the guest room stood empty, and then out the back door. I pounded across our yard onto the slender boat deck leading out over the river. Amy was not there. Amy was gone. Nick Dunne, Brooklyn party boy, sugar-cloud kisser, disappearing act. Eight months, two weeks, couple of days, no word, and then he resurfaces, like it was all part of the plan. He tried to unravel it but could only see a 3 and an 8.

He said. And then work clobbered him and suddenly it was March and too embarrassingly late to try to find me. Of course I was angry. I had been angry. Let me set the scene. She said. Gusty September winds. It was him. Together, together. It was that easy. Propitious, if you will. And I will. Amazing Amy and the Big Day. Yes, for book twenty, Amazing Amy is getting married! No one cares. No one wanted Amazing Amy to grow up, least of all me. Leave her in kneesocks and hair ribbons and let me grow up, unencumbered by my literary alter ego, my paperbound better half, the me I was supposed to be.

Still, it was unsettling, the incredibly small order the publisher put in. Now ten thousand. The book-launch party was, accordingly, unfabulous. How do you throw a party for a fictional character who started life as a precocious moppet of six and is now a thirty-year-old bride-to-be who still speaks like a child?

The whole book made me want to punch Amy right in her stupid, spotless vagina. I read it, of course. I gave the book my blessing — multiple times. That my parents, two child psychologists, chose this particular public form of passive-aggressiveness toward their child was not just fucked up but also stupid and weird and kind of hilarious.

So be it. The book party was as schizophrenic as the book — at Bluenight, off Union Square, one of those shadowy salons with wingback chairs and art deco mirrors that are supposed to make you feel like a Bright Young Thing. Gin martinis wobbling on trays lofted by waiters with rictus smiles. Greedy journalists with knowing smirks and hollow legs, getting the free buzz before they go somewhere better. My parents circulate the room hand in hand — their love story is always part of the Amazing Amy story: husband and wife in mutual creative labor for a quarter century.

Soul mates.

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They really call themselves that, which makes sense, because I guess they are. I can vouch for it, having studied them, little lonely only child, for many years. Making it look easy, the soul-mate thing. People say children from broken homes have it hard, but the children of charmed marriages have their own particular challenges.

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How does it feel to see Amy finally married to Andy? Ha, ha. No Able Andy in my life right now. Thank God for the open bar. I wriggle back into the small crowd, where my parents are in full hosting mode, their faces flushed — Rand with his toothy prehistoric-monster-fish smile, Marybeth with her chickeny, cheerful head bobs, their hands intertwined, making each other laugh, enjoying each other, thrilled with each other — and I think, I am so fucking lonely. I go home and cry for a while.

I am almost thirty-two. I have many friends who are married — not many who are happily married, but many married friends. A smart, pretty, nice girl like me, a girl with so many interests and enthusiasms, a cool job, a loving family. No relationship is perfect, they say — they, who make do with dutiful sex and gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation — yes, honey, okay, honey — is the same as concord.

Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young coworker who asks nothing of him, and you will actually be shocked. Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. But who also kind of likes my bullshit. Those awful if only relationships: This marriage would be great if only … and you sense the if only list is a lot longer than either of them realizes.

As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. He gets me. She gets me. So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man — the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine.

And your life is a long line of fine. You both find the exact same things worth remembering. You have the same rhythm. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours.

That fast. You think: Oh, here is the rest of my life. Amy always phoned right back. Or the door open. 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 think of that, too: 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? 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. 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! It felt different. I rarely woke at such a rounded time. I was a man of jagged risings: My life was alarmless.

At that exact moment, , 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.

You have been seen. You will be seen. The kind of house that is immediately familiar: It had been a compromise: But the only houses for rent were clustered in this failed development: 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. 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. New York was packed with writers, real writers, because there were magazines, real magazines, loads of them. Think about it: We had no clue that we were embarking on careers that would vanish within a decade. All around the country, magazines began shuttering, succumbing to a sudden infection brought on by the busted economy.

Writers my kind of writers: Our time was done. Three weeks after I got cut loose, Amy lost her job, such as it was. That, she would tell you, is typical. Just like Nick, she would say. It was a refrain of hers: Just like Nick to … and whatever followed, whatever was just like me, was bad. Two jobless grown-ups, we spent weeks wandering around our Brooklyn brownstone in socks and pajamas, ignoring the future, strewing unopened mail across tables and sofas, eating ice cream at ten a.

Then one day the phone rang. My twin sister was on the other end. Margo had moved back home after her own New York layoff a year before — the girl is one step ahead of me in everything, even shitty luck. Our indomitable mother was dying. Our dad was nearly gone — his nasty mind, his miserable heart, both murky as he meandered toward the great gray beyond. But it looked like our mother would beat him there. About six months, maybe a year, she had.

Dates and doses. Does that even make sense? I almost cried with relief.

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I could hear her breathing on the other end. Why not?

I simply assumed I would bundle up my New York wife with her New York interests, her New York pride, and remove her from her New York parents — leave the frantic, thrilling futureland of Manhattan behind — and transplant her to a little town on the river in Missouri, and all would be fine.

I did not yet understand how foolish, how optimistic, how, yes, just like Nick I was for thinking this. The misery it would lead to. Their few meetings had left them both baffled. My morning breath warmed the pillow, and I changed the subject in my mind. Today was not a day for second-guessing or regret, it was a day for doing. Downstairs, I could hear the return of a long- lost sound: Amy making breakfast. Banging wooden cupboards rump-thump! A culinary orchestra tuning up, clattering vigorously toward the finale, a cake pan drumrolling along the floor, hitting the wall with a cymballic crash.

Something impressive was being created, probably a crepe, because crepes are special, and today Amy would want to cook something special. It was our five-year anniversary. I walked barefoot to the edge of the steps and stood listening, working my toes into the plush wall-to-wall carpet Amy detested on principle, as I tried to decide whether I was ready to join my wife.

Amy was in the kitchen, oblivious to my hesitation. She was humming something melancholy and familiar. I strained to make it out — a folk song?

Suicide is painless. I went downstairs. I hovered in the doorway, watching my wife. Her yellow-butter hair was pulled up, the hank of ponytail swinging cheerful as a jumprope, and she was sucking distractedly on a burnt fingertip, humming around it. She hummed to herself because she was an unrivaled botcher of lyrics. When we were first dating, a Genesis song came on the radio: I knew I liked her then, really liked her, this girl with an explanation for everything. Amy peered at the crepe sizzling in the pan and licked something off her wrist.

She looked triumphant, wifely. If I took her in my arms, she would smell like berries and powdered sugar.Natasha Walter, one of the Women's Prize judges in , told the Independent that there was considerable debate amongst the judges about the inclusion of Gone Girl in the finalists' circle.

Downstairs, I could hear the return of a long- lost sound: One of the most critically acclaimed suspense writers of our time, New York Times bestseller Gillian Flynn takes that statement to its darkest place in this unputdownable masterpiece about a marriage gone terribly, terribly wrong.

New Regency and Fox agreed to co-finance the film. June 26, Nick Dunne: Like a child, I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down her thoughts.

Now ten thousand.