“I was writing this review because I could. Because this book came out over a year ago but there are still people who will want to read what I have to say about it.”

I start my review of Gone Girl trying my best to sound like Amazing Amy, the protagonist of Gone Girl. “They should’ve called this book ‘Too far-gone Girl'”, I think to myself as I put it down for the last time.

You know how sometimes you know a couple that are terrible for each other, and you want to say to them: You guys are insane. I wish I didn’t know you. This was the first half of Gone Girl. Not that the second half made it any better, but I was hooked. I read the book in less than 4 instalments, while traveling and recuperating from said travel. I liked the ride enough, but like my travel itself, I grew weary and just wanted it to end. The characters are imaginative, if you’d say well-detailed is synonymous with imaginative. Standard affairs for the romantic thriller genre: clingy siblings that reek of possible incest, abusive-protective ex-lovers. Gillian Flynn manages to keep you playing, you realize, because of one thing: Everybody loves comeuppance and everybody wants to know who won. You don’t care if this narrative is like R rated junior high. You just want to know.

And that is why the book leaves me underwhelmed: it takes me back to a time when I thought everything that was creative had to be edgy. The story incorporates everything that is characteristic of our time: social media, the shark-like press, but it’s narrative is familiar: It’s suddenly 2004. I’m in eleventh grade. It’s okay to act entitled to everything! Yay my teen-age! It makes me want to end like this:
Pros: Mark Twain references. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf references. Relatable.
Cons: Shiftless. Clichéd. Relatable.
Verdict: Read it. I think you may like it.

Epilogue: With no laptop or apartment, I wrote this on a notebook I bummed off my Dad on my best friend’s futon which is also my home. Also pictured: All my money. How very writer like, I deem.