Paula Hawkins

Paula
Hawkins
1972

Rhodesian(now Zimbabwe)-born British Author, best known for her 2015 novel "The Girl on the Train"

Author Quotes

I just don't know whether he's the condemned man or the executioner.

I see them as others do not; even their owners probably don?t see them from this perspective.

I will not lie to pretend that I am a nice, even if I tried.

If he thinks I?m going to sit around crying over him, he?s got another thing coming. I can live without him, I can do without him just fine?but I don?t like to lose. It?s not like me. None of this is like me. I don?t get rejected. I?m the one who walks away.

It could be her birthday, it could be the morning of the Rapture?Cathy will get up early on Saturday to clean.

It?s not the worst thing I?ve ever done, it?s not as if I fell over in public, or yelled at a stranger in the street. It?s not as if I humiliated my husband at a summer barbecue by shouting abuse at the wife of one of

Living as we do today is harder in summer, when there are so many hours of sunshine and so little is the refuge of darkness; when everyone is on the street, showing blatant and aggressively happy. Is exhausting and feels bad about not join the others.

On its side, someone has painted: LIFE IS NOT A PARAGRAPH. I think about the bundle of clothes on the side of the track and I feel as though my throat is closing up. Life is not a paragraph, and death is no parenthesis.

She finds it funny or whether she?s trying to appease him.

Sometimes, I don?t want to go anywhere, I think I?ll be happy if I never have to set foot outside the house again.

The pain is solid and heavy, it sits in the middle of my chest.

There was a time when I thought he could be everything, he could be enough. I thought that for years. I loved him completely. I still do. But I don?t want this any longer.

What bothers me most is that I haven?t got to the end of my story, and I can?t start over with someone else, it?s too hard.

You have to be true to yourself, don't you? That's all I'm doing, being true to my real self.

I just had to hope that one day we would have the money, and in the meantime I had to bite back the tears that came, hot and fast, every time I saw a stranger with a bump, every time I heard someone else?s happy news.

I sit there on the floor with the picture in front of me and think about how things get broken all the time by accident, and how sometimes you just don't get round to getting them fixed.

I?d never realized, not until the last year or two of my life, how shaming it is to be pitied.

If I can just learn how to hold on to this feeling, this one I'm having now - if I could just discover how to focus on this happiness, enjoy the moment, not wonder about where the next high is coming from - then everything will be all right.

It doesn?t feel like it was me who was doing that thing. And it?s so hard to feel responsible for something you don?t remember. So I never feel bad enough. I feel bad, but the thing that I?ve done?it?s removed from me. It?s like it doesn?t belong to me.

It?s possible to miss what you?ve never had, to mourn for it.

Living like this, the way I?m living at the moment, is harder in the summer when there is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness, when everyone is out and about, being flagrantly, aggressively happy. It?s exhausting, and it makes you feel bad if you?re not joining in.

On the train on the way home, as I dissect all the ways that today went wrong, I?m surprised by the fact that I don?t feel as awful as I might. Thinking about it, I know why that is: I didn?t have a drink last night, and I have no desire to have one now. I am interested, for the first time in ages, in something other than my own misery. I have purpose. Or at least, I have a distraction.

She has her fingers curled tightly around his forefinger and I have hold of her perfect pink foot, and I feel as though fireworks are going off in my chest. It?s impossible, this much love.

Surely he would call me, wouldn't she? She would know how panicked... how desperate I would be. She's not vindictive like that, is she?

The police think I?m a rubbernecker. They think I?m a stalker, a nut-case, mentally unstable.

Author Picture
First Name
Paula
Last Name
Hawkins
Birth Date
1972
Bio

Rhodesian(now Zimbabwe)-born British Author, best known for her 2015 novel "The Girl on the Train"