I thought The Girl on the Train was a bit depressing like most psychological thrillers. Anyway, here’s my favourite bits and pieces from the book:
Hollowness: that I understand. I’m starting to believe that there isn’t anything you can do to fix it. That’s what I’ve taken from the therapy sessions: the holes in your life are permanent. You have to grow around them, like tree roots around concrete; you mould yourself through the gaps.
I have never understood how people can blithely disregard the damage they do by following their hearts. Who was it said that following your heart is a good thing? It is pure egotism, a selfishness to conquer all.
There’s something comforting about the sight of strangers safe at home.
it’s possible to miss what you’ve never had, to mourn for it.
I have lost control over everything, even the places in my head.
Life is not a paragraph, and death is no parenthesis. (This is a reference to an e. e. cummings poem within the author’s work)
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.
There’s nothing so painful, so corrosive, as suspicion.
I want to drag knives over my skin, just to feel something other than shame, but I’m not even brave enough for that.
But I did become sadder, and sadness gets boring after a while, for the sad person and for everyone around them.
Let’s be honest: women are still only really valued for two things—their looks and their role as mothers.
I’m playing at real life instead of actually living it.
And I’ve just got to let myself feel the pain, because if I don’t, if I keep numbing it, it’ll never really go away.
I am not the girl I used to be. I am no longer desirable, I’m off-putting in some way. It’s not just that I’ve put on weight, or that my face is puffy from the drinking and the lack of sleep; it’s as if people can see the damage written all over me, can see it in my face, the way I hold myself, the way I move.
It’s impossible to resist the kindness of strangers.
But then I think, this happens sometimes, doesn’t it? People you have a history with, they won’t let you go, and as hard as you might try, you can’t disentangle yourself, can’t set yourself free. Maybe after a while you just stop trying.
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.
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?
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.
They’re what I lost, they’re everything I want to be.