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 never could understand that it is possible that one misses something he did not have before and that it resides in mourning

I watch him come, I watch him, and I don?t move until he?s almost upon me, and then I swing. I jam the vicious twist of the corkscrew into his neck.

I?m well aware there is no job more important than that of raising a child, but the problem is that it isn?t valued. Not in the sense that counts to me at the moment, which is financial.

Instead a different sort of joy, a little girl tucked up between him and his wife, babbling away. She?ll be just learning to talk now, all Dada and Mama and a secret language incomprehensible to anyone but a parent.

It?s impossible to resist the kindness of strangers. Someone who looks at you, who doesn?t know you, who tells you it?s OK, whatever you did, whatever you?ve done: you suffered, you hurt, you deserve forgiveness.

Life and light will not let me be.

Nothing at all would be a step up from my conversations with Anna. God, she?s dull! You get the feeling that she probably had something to say for herself once upon a time, but now everything is about the child: Is she warm enough? Is she too warm? How much milk did she take?

Parents don?t care about anything but their children. They are the center of the universe; they are all that really counts. Nobody else is important, no one else?s suffering or joy matters, none of it is real.

Sometimes I catch myself trying to remember the last time I had meaningful physical contact with another person, just a hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, and my heart twitches.

The memory doesn?t fit with the reality, because I don?t remember anger, raging fury. I remember fear.

There can be no more suffering, nothing can be more painful than not reach never know what happened.

We don?t talk about anything substantial, it?s just the introductory session, the getting-to-know-you stuff; he asks me what the trouble is and I tell him about the panic attacks, the insomnia, the fact that I lie awake at night too frightened to fall asleep. He wants me to talk a bit more about that, but I?m not ready yet. He asks me whether I take drugs, drink alcohol. I tell him I have other vices these days, and I catch his eye and I think he knows what I mean. Then I feel as if I ought to be taking this a bit more seriously, so I tell him about the gallery closing and that I feel at a loose end all the time, my lack of direction, the fact that I spend too much time in my head.

Why would she do that? Jason loves her, I can see it, they?re happy. I can?t believe she would do that to him, he doesn?t deserve that. I feel a real sense of disappointment, I feel as though I have been cheated. A familiar ache fills my chest. I have felt this way before. On a larger scale, to a more intense degree, of course, but I remember the quality of the pain. You don?t forget it.

I once read a book by a former alcoholic where she described giving oral sex to two different men, men she'd just met in a restaurant on a busy London high street. I read it and thought, I'm not that bad. This is where the bar is set.

I went from being a drinker to being a drunk, and there?s nothing more boring than that.

I?ve always thought that it might be fun to be Catholic, to be able to go to the confessional and unburden yourself and have someone tell you that they forgive you, to take all the sin away, wipe the slate clean.

It broke me and I broke us.

It?s not a photo I?ve seen before.

Life is not a paragraph and death is no parenthesis.

Now look what you made me do.

People you have a history with, they won?t let you go, and as hard as you might try, you can?t disentangle yourself,

Sometimes I don?t even watch the trains go past, I just listen. Sitting here in the morning, eyes closed and the hot sun orange on my eyelids, I could be anywhere. I could be in the south of Spain, at the beach; I could be in Italy, the Cinque Terre, all those pretty colored houses and the trains ferrying the tourists back and forth. I could be back in Holkham with the screech of gulls in my ears and salt on my tongue and a ghost train passing on the rusted track half a mile away.

The more I go over it, the less sense it makes, and I can?t stop going over it.

There is a pile of clothing on the side of the train tracks. Light-blue cloth?a shirt, perhaps?jumbled up with something dirty white. It?s probably rubbish, part of a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up the bank. It could have been left behind by the engineers who work this part of the track, they?re here often enough. Or it could be something else. My mother used to tell me that I had an overactive imagination; Tom said that, too. I can?t help it, I catch sight of these discarded scraps, a dirty T-shirt or a lonesome shoe, and all I can think of is the other shoe and the feet that fitted into them.

We live together ... when we were together, Ben and me. We were not afraid of anything.

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"