Paula Hawkins


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

Author Quotes

Like the police, he?d probably just think I?m a nutter, some weirdo who?s read about the case in the newspaper.

Now, I think he might be dead.

Scott the other night: the dream was just my brain picking all that apart.

Sometimes I want to scream at him, Just let me go. Let me go. Let me breathe. So I can't sleep, and I'm angry. I feel as though we're having fight already, even though the fight's only in my imagination. And in my head, thoughts go round and round and round. And I feel like I'm suffocating.

The need to flee is becoming overwhelming. At night, I can hear in my head low but relentless and incontestable whisper: 'Get away. '

There is something wrong. I feel the moment I dropped the bed had disappeared from under my body.

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.

You can?t step directly into a cold stream of water, it?s too shocking, too brutal, but if you get there gradually, you hardly notice it; it?s like boiling a frog in reverse.

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.

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