Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

One of those homely ranch houses featuring the garage as its central point.

I regretted what a serious teenager I’d been: There were no posters of pop stars or favorite movies, no girlish collections of photos or corsages.

The problem started long before that, of course. Problems always start long before you really, really see them.

A town so suffocating and small, you tripped over people you hated every day. People who knew things about you. It’s the kind of place that leaves a mark.

I always feel sad for the girl that I was, because it never occurred to me that my mother might comfort me.

I’ve always been partial to the image of liquor as lubrication—a layer of protection from all the sharp thoughts in your head.

“Ah, well, being conflicted means you can live a shallow life without copping to being a shallow person.”

I did feel sad, but articulating it seemed cheap to me.

I tried to tell myself I was intrigued, like a scientist on the edge of a breakthrough, but my throat closed up and I had to make myself breathe.

“Like: This place is miserable and I want to die, but I can’t think of any place I’d rather be,”

Ninety degrees but the heat made me feel safe, like walking underwater.

Don’t play martyr, Cubby. I’m not going to penalize you if you need to leave. You’ve got to take care of yourself. I thought being home might do you good, but … I forget sometimes parents aren’t always … good for their kids.”

Bear gifts if you can’t bear anything else.

It was a town that bred complacency through cable TV and a convenience store.

Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom.

A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.