Paula Hawkins

Paula
Hawkins
1972

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

Author Quotes

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.

There?s nothing so painful, so corrosive, as suspicion.

What does it feel like, Anna, to live in my house, surrounded by the furniture I bought, to sleep in the bed that I shared with him for years, to feed your child at the kitchen table he fucked me on?

You lied to me, I say. You told me everything was my fault. You made me believe that I was worthless. You watched me suffer,

I just listen. Sitting here in the morning, eyes closed

I sit up, eyes wide, and see something moving in the corner of the room, a dense center of blackness that keeps growing, and I almost cry out?and then I?m properly awake and there?s nothing there, but I am sitting up in bed and my cheeks are wet with tears

I?m almost at the station, just passing the Crown, when I feel a hand on my arm and I wheel around, slipping off the pavement and into the road.

If I don?t do it now, I might never have the courage to say the words out loud, I might lose them altogether, they might stick in my throat and choke me in my sleep.

It doesn't make sense, and I could scream with the frustration of it, the not knowing, the uselessness of my own brain.

It?s ridiculous, when I think about it. How did I find myself here? I wonder where it started, my decline; I wonder at what point I could have halted it. Where did I take the wrong turn?

Look at the life they have, look at how beautiful it is! I have never understood how people can blithely disregard the damage they do by following their hearts.

On the train, the tears come, and I don?t care if people are watching me; for all they know, my dog might have been run over. I might have been diagnosed with a terminal illness. I might be a barren, divorced, soon-to-be-homeless alcoholic. It?s ridiculous, when I think about it. How did I find myself here? I wonder where it started, my decline; I wonder at what point I could have halted it. Where did I take the wrong turn?

She has no past, no future. She exists purely in the moment. Drunk.

That was my first home. Not my parents? place, not a flatshare with other students, my first home. I can?t bear to look at it. Well, I can, I do, I want to, I don?t want to, I try not to. Every day I tell myself not to look, and every day I look. I can?t help myself, even though there is nothing I want to see there, even though anything I do see will hurt me.

The reality is that women are still valued the only two things: their appearance and their role as mothers. I'm not beautiful and I cannot have children. What does that make me? Someone useless.

There?s something comforting about the sight of strangers safe at home.

What happened to you, Rachel? he asked me. When did you become so weak? I don?t know. I don?t know where that strength went, I don?t remember losing it. I think that over time it got chipped away, bit by bit, by life, by the living of it.

You?re like one of those dogs, the unwanted ones that have been mistreated all their lives. You can kick them and kick them, but they?ll still come back to you, cringing and wagging their tails. Begging. Hoping that this time it?ll be different, that this time they?ll do something right and you?ll love them.

I knew as I was agreeing that it wasn?t a good idea. What I know about Scott, from the papers, is almost nothing. What I know from my own observations, I don?t really know. I don?t know anything about Scott. I know things about Jason ? who, I have to keep reminding myself, doesn?t exist. All I know for sure ? for absolutely certain ? is that Scott?s wife has been missing for a week. I know that he is probably a suspect. And I know, because I saw that kiss, that he has a motive to kill her.

I stop at the corner and peer into the underpass. That smell of cold and damp always sends a little shiver down my spine, it?s like turning over a rock to see what?s underneath: moss and worms and earth. It reminds me of playing in the garden as a child, looking for frogs by the pond with Ben. I walk on. The street is clear ? no sign of Tom or Anna ? and the part of me that can?t resist a bit of drama is actually quite disappointed.

I?m going to tell the truth. No more lies, no more hiding, no more running, no more bullshit. I?m going to put everything out in the open, and then we?ll see. If he can?t love me then, so be it.

If I sit in carriage D, which I usually do, and the train stops at this signal, which it almost always does, I have a perfect view into my favorite trackside house: number fifteen.

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"