It’s not often that the old
cliché “I stayed up all night reading this!” is actually true, at least in my
case. Don’t get me wrong here: there are many, many books that I’ve loved and
enjoyed, but relatively few that have kept me reading compulsively, desperate
to know what happened next. (And that’s no criticism, either: some books are
slow-burners, written to be savoured, and none the worse for it.)
In the case of Gone Girl, though,
that cliché was almost true. I didn’t quite stay up all night turning the pages,
but I got through it in a few days, and frequently sat up long past my usual
bedtime reading it, caught up in the story, desperate to know where it would
take me next. It was a bit like being driven at high speed around a race track
with myriad twists and turns and an intriguing, if rapidly-changing, view:
scary, breakneck, compelling, and – above all – fun. In an evil kind of way.
The story is told by two
narrators, husband and wife Nick and Amy, a once-achingly cool New York couple
who, following the credit crunch, are pretty much forced to downsize and move to
Missouri. Following a précis like that, you might think that Gone Girl is
another tale of small town boredom and dissatisfaction – and in some ways it
is. But – but – this is not, ultimately, a Richard Yates-esque dissection of
the emptiness of suburban life, but a fast-paced thriller that keeps on turning
on you, goading you, biting you, surprising you. Just when you think you’ve
worked it all out, Flynn springs another surprise on you, and then another, and
another. You wonder who these people really are, what on earth is going on.
And that’s appropriate, because one
of the themes of Gone Girl is the ultimate “unknowability” of another person.
We yearn to find that one person who really gets us, who knows and understands
us as well as we ourselves do; many a marriage and relationship is built on
that fragile hope. Much of the ugly complexity of Nick and Amy’s relationship
is due to the fact that, while on some level they really do understand each
other, on another level they don’t know each other at all. They play cruel and
ugly games, they keep secrets, they lay traps for each other – and yes, they ensnare
each other in a variety of evil ways, though I can’t really say very much about
that without entering spoiler territory.
I love Flynn’s writing style:
it’s cool, ironic, snarky. I love the way she takes the common, trivial
problems affecting many a marriage – money problems, in-laws, disagreements
over where to live and whether or not to have kids – and makes them insidious,
toxic. I love the fact that she has the courage to make her characters
thoroughly unlikeable, and appreciate the way she manages to make us like them anyway,
or at least grudgingly admire them. I love the way the ending is truly horrific
– and not in the way you think it’s going to be, no, not at all. If you’re
married, or just involved, it will make you shiver, partly with recognition
(even though your own marriage is unlikely to be quite as insanely bad as this
one). If you’re unmarried, you’ll probably decide you want to stay that way.
With apologies to Gillian Flynn,
I leave you with a little quiz, à la Amy…
You’ve just read a book that you
loved so much that you really, really wish that you had written it. Do you:
a. Dissolve into gushing fangirl
mode and rave about said book every opportunity you get;
b. Feel both depressed and uplifted
when you consider just what literature is capable of;
c. Quiver with jealous self-pity;
d. All of the above?
Answer: d.
Yes, believe the hype. It really
is that good.
