Sharp Objects. Movie Tie-In

A Novel. Now an HBO Limited Series starring Amy Adams. Winner of the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger 2007 and the New Blood Dagger 2007

Gillian Flynn

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Beschreibung

NOW AN HBO® LIMITED SERIES STARRING AMY ADAMS, NOMINATED FOR EIGHT EMMY AWARDS, INCLUDING OUTSTANDING LIMITED SERIES

FROM THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF GONE GIRL


Fresh from a brief stay at a psych hospital, reporter Camille Preaker faces a troubling assignment: she must return to her tiny hometown to cover the murders of two preteen girls. For years, Camille has hardly spoken to her neurotic, hypochondriac mother or to the half-sister she barely knows: a beautiful thirteen-year-old with an eerie grip on the town. Now, installed in her old bedroom in her family's Victorian mansion, Camille finds herself identifying with the young victims—a bit too strongly. Dogged by her own demons, she must unravel the psychological puzzle of her own past if she wants to get the story—and survive this homecoming.

Praise for Sharp Objects

“Nasty, addictive reading.”
—Chicago Tribune

 

“Skillful and disturbing.”
—Washington Post

 

“Darkly original . . . [a] riveting tale.”
—People

GILLIAN FLYNN's debut novel, Sharp Objects , was an Edgar Award finalist and the winner of two of Britain's Dagger awards--the first book ever to win multiple Daggers in one year. Amy Adams is set to star in the HBO adaptation, airing in 2018. Flynn's second novel, the New York Times bestseller Dark Places , was adapted into a movie starring Charlize Theron in 2015. Flynn wrote the screenplay for David Fincher's 2014 film adaptation of Gone Girl , starring Ben Affleck and Rosamund Pike. Her newest release, The Grownup , is an Edgar Award-winning short story. Flynn's work has been published in forty-one languages. She lives in Chicago with her husband, Brett Nolan, their children, and a giant black cat named Roy.

Produktdetails

Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 432
Erscheinungsdatum 01.06.2018
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-0-525-57681-5
Verlag Random House LCC US
Maße (L/B/H) 17,6/10,8/2,9 cm
Gewicht 206 g

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Spannend
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden aus Bern am 21.08.2020
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

Auch wenn sich die Geschichte eher langsam entwickelt, ist sie definitiv nichts für schwache Nerven. Unterhaltsame (und abgedrehte) Charaktere versuchen ihre Geheimnisse zu verstecken, bis sie zu einem verstörenden Gesamtbild zusammenfallen.

Gut geschrieben - aber sehr abgefahren
von Nicolas Denecke aus Hannover am 12.01.2015
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

Gillian Flynn schreibt wirklich gut und spannend. Dieses Buch versucht, kein gewöhnlicher Thriller zu sein. Jedoch fand ich es ein bisschen zu crazy was passiert, und vieles wird erst am Ende kurz vor Schluss aufgelöst. Habe die psychologische Rafinesse von "Gone Girl" vermisst.

Spannend!
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden aus Köln am 01.07.2014
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

ich liebe den Stil von Gillian Flynn, ihre Bücher sind sehr spannend und man möchte sie nicht weglegen. Spannung bis zur letzten Seite und immer wieder kleine Wendungen.


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  • Chapter One

    My sweater was new, stinging red and ugly. It was May 12 but the temperature had dipped to the forties, and after four days shivering in my shirtsleeves, I grabbed cover at a tag sale rather than dig through my boxed-up winter clothes. Spring in Chicago.

    In my gunny-covered cubicle I sat staring at the computer screen. My story for the day was a limp sort of evil. Four kids, ages two through six, were found locked in a room on the South Side with a couple of tuna sandwiches and a quart of milk. They'd been left three days, flurrying like chickens over the food and feces on the carpet. Their mother had wandered off for a suck on the pipe and just forgotten. Sometimes that's what happens. No cigarette burns, no bone snaps. Just an irretrievable slipping. I'd seen the mother after the arrest: twenty-two-year-old Tammy Davis, blonde and fat, with pink rouge on her cheeks in two perfect circles the size of shot glasses. I could imagine her sitting on a shambled-down sofa, her lips on that metal, a sharp burst of smoke. Then all was fast floating, her kids way behind, as she shot back to junior high, when the boys still cared and she was the prettiest, a glossy-lipped thirteen-year-old who mouthed cinnamon sticks before she kissed.

    A belly. A smell. Cigarettes and old coffee. My editor, esteemed, weary Frank Curry, rocking back in his cracked Hush Puppies. His teeth soaked in brown tobacco saliva.

    "Where are you on the story, kiddo?" There was a silver tack on my desk, point up. He pushed it lightly under a yellow thumbnail.

    "Near done." I had two inches of copy. I needed six.

    "Good. Fuck her, file it, and come to my office."

    "I can come now."

    "Fuck her, file it, then come to my office."

    "Fine. Ten minutes." I wanted my thumbtack back.

    He started out of my cubicle. His tie swayed down near his crotch.

    "Preaker?"

    "Yes, Curry?"

    "Fuck her."

    Frank Curry thinks I'm a soft touch. Might be because I'm a woman. Might be because I'm a soft touch.

    Curry's office is on the third floor. I'm sure he gets panicky-pissed every time he looks out the window and sees the trunk of a tree. Good editors don't see bark; they see leaves--if they can even make out trees from up on the twentieth, thirtieth floor. But for the Daily Post, fourth-largest paper in Chicago, relegated to the suburbs, there's room to sprawl. Three floors will do, spreading relentlessly outward, like a spill, unnoticed among the carpet retailers and lamp shops. A corporate developer produced our township over three well-organized years--1961-64--then named it after his daughter, who'd suffered a serious equestrian accident a month before the job was finished. Aurora Springs, he ordered, pausing for a photo by a brand-new city sign. Then he took his family and left. The daughter, now in her fifties and fine except for an occasional tingling in her arms, lives in Arizona and returns every few years to take a photo by her namesake sign, just like Pop.

    I wrote the story on her last visit. Curry hated it, hates most slice-of-life pieces. He got smashed off old Chambord while he read it, left my copy smelling like raspberries. Curry gets drunk fairly quietly, but often. It's not the reason, though, that he has such a cozy view of the ground. That's just yawing bad luck.

    I walked in and shut the door to his office, which isn't how I'd ever imagined my editor's office would look. I craved big oak panels, a window pane in the door--marked Chief--so the cub reporters could watch us rage over First Amendment rights. Curry's office is bland and institutional, like the rest of the building. You could debate journalism or get a Pap smear. No one cared.

    "Tell me about Wind Gap." Curry held the tip of a b