Amazon Prime Free Trial
FREE Delivery is available to Prime members. To join, select "Try Amazon Prime and start saving today with FREE Delivery" below the Add to Cart button and confirm your Prime free trial.
Amazon Prime members enjoy:- Cardmembers earn 5% Back at Amazon.com with a Prime Credit Card.
- Unlimited FREE Prime delivery
- Streaming of thousands of movies and TV shows with limited ads on Prime Video.
- A Kindle book to borrow for free each month - with no due dates
- Listen to over 2 million songs and hundreds of playlists
Important: Your credit card will NOT be charged when you start your free trial or if you cancel during the trial period. If you're happy with Amazon Prime, do nothing. At the end of the free trial, your membership will automatically upgrade to a monthly membership.
-51% $8.86$8.86
Ships from: Amazon.com Sold by: Amazon.com
$7.97$7.97
Ships from: Amazon Sold by: Jenson Books Inc
Download the free Kindle app and start reading Kindle books instantly on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required.
Read instantly on your browser with Kindle for Web.
Using your mobile phone camera - scan the code below and download the Kindle app.
Image Unavailable
Color:
-
-
-
- To view this video download Flash Player
Audible sample
The Girl on the Train Paperback – July 12, 2016
Purchase options and add-ons
The debut psychological thriller that will forever change the way you look at other people's lives, from the author of Into the Water and A Slow Fire Burning.
“Nothing is more addicting than The Girl on the Train.”—Vanity Fair
“The Girl on the Train has more fun with unreliable narration than any chiller since Gone Girl. . . . [It] is liable to draw a large, bedazzled readership.”—The New York Times
“Marries movie noir with novelistic trickery. . . hang on tight. You'll be surprised by what horrors lurk around the bend.”—USA Today
“Like its train, the story blasts through the stagnation of these lives in suburban London and the reader cannot help but turn pages.”—The Boston Globe
“Gone Girl fans will devour this psychological thriller.”—People
EVERY DAY THE SAME
Rachel takes the same commuter train every morning and night. Every day she rattles down the track, flashes past a stretch of cozy suburban homes, and stops at the signal that allows her to daily watch the same couple breakfasting on their deck. She’s even started to feel like she knows them. Jess and Jason, she calls them. Their life—as she sees it—is perfect. Not unlike the life she recently lost.
UNTIL TODAY
And then she sees something shocking. It’s only a minute until the train moves on, but it’s enough. Now everything’s changed. Unable to keep it to herself, Rachel goes to the police. But is she really as unreliable as they say? Soon she is deeply entangled not only in the investigation but in the lives of everyone involved. Has she done more harm than good?
- Print length336 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherRiverhead Books
- Publication dateJuly 12, 2016
- Dimensions5.14 x 0.82 x 7.98 inches
- ISBN-101594634025
- ISBN-13978-1594634024
Discover the latest buzz-worthy books, from mysteries and romance to humor and nonfiction. Explore more
Frequently bought together
Customers who viewed this item also viewed
- 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.Highlighted by 12,235 Kindle readers
- 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.Highlighted by 10,572 Kindle readers
- 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.Highlighted by 8,794 Kindle readers
- On the way back down the road, he passes me in his car, our eyes meet for just a second and he smiles at me.Highlighted by 4,812 Kindle readers
Editorial Reviews
Review
“The Girl on the Train marries movie noir with novelistic trickery. . . hang on tight. You'll be surprised by what horrors lurk around the bend.”—USA Today
“Like its train, the story blasts through the stagnation of these lives in suburban London and the reader cannot help but turn pages. . . . The welcome echoes ofRear Window throughout the story and its propulsive narrative make The Girl on the Train an absorbing read.”—The Boston Globe
“[The Girl on the Train] pulls off a thriller's toughest trick: carefully assembling everything we think we know, until it reveals the one thing we didn't see coming."—Entertainment Weekly
“Gone Girl fans will devour this psychological thriller. . . . Hawkins’s debut ends with a twist that no one—least of all its victims—could have seen coming.”—People
“Given the number of titles that are declared to be 'the next' of a bestseller . . . book fans have every right to be wary. But Paula Hawkins’ novel The Girl on the Train just might have earned the title of 'the next Gone Girl.”—Christian Science Monitor
“Hawkins’s taut story roars along at the pace of, well, a high-speed train. …Hawkins delivers a smart, searing thriller that offers readers a 360-degree view of lust, love, marriage and divorce.”—Good Housekeeping
“There’s nothing like a possible murder to take the humdrum out of your daily commute.”—Cosmopolitan
"Paula Hawkins has come up with an ingenious slant on the currently fashionable amnesia thriller. . . . Hawkins juggles perspectives and timescales with great skill, and considerable suspense builds up along with empathy for an unusual central character."—The Guardian
“Paula Hawkins deftly imbues her debut psychological thriller with inventive twists and a shocking denouement. … Hawkins delivers an original debut that keeps the exciting momentum of The Girl on the Train going until the last page.”—Denver Post
“The Girl on the Train, Hawkins’s first thriller, is well-written and ingeniously constructed.” – The Washington Post
“The novel is at its best in the moment of maximum confusion, when neither the reader nor the narrators know what is occurring” – The Financial Times
“This fresh take on Hitchcock’s Rear Window is getting raves and will likely be one of the biggest debuts of the year.”—Omaha World-Herald
“Hawkins’s tale of love, regret, violence and forgetting is an engrossing psychological thriller with plenty of surprises. . . . The novel gets harder and harder to put down as the story screeches toward its unexpected ending.”—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“A gripping, down-the-rabbit-hole thriller.”—Entertainment Weekly Hotlist
“The Thriller So Engrossing, You'll Pray for Snow: Send in the blizzards, because nothing as mundane as work, school or walking the dog should distract you from this debut thriller. A natural fit for fans of Gone Girl-style unreliable narrators and twisty, fast-moving plots, The Girl on the Train will have you racing through the pages."—Oprah.com
“It's difficult to say too much more about the plot of The Girl on the Train; like all thrillers, it's best for readers to dive in spoiler-free. This is a debut novel—Hawkins is a journalist by training—but it doesn't read like the work of someone new to suspense. The novel is perfectly paced, from its arresting beginning to its twist ending; it's not an easy book to put down. . . . . What really makes The Girl on the Train such a gripping novel is Hawkins' remarkable understanding of the limits of human knowledge, and the degree to which memory and imagination can become confused.”—NPR.org
“[L]ike Gone Girl, Hawkins's book is a highly addictive novel about a lonely divorcee who gets caught up in the disappearance of a woman whom she had been surreptitiously watching. And beyond the Gone Girl comparisons, this book has legs of its own.”—GQ.com
“Paula Hawkins’ thriller is a shocking ride.” –US Weekly
“An ex-wife indulges her voyeuristic tendencies in Paula Hawkins’s film-ready The Girl on the Train. In the post-Gone Girl era, crimes of love aren’t determined by body counts or broken hearts, but by who controls the story line.” –Vogue
“The Girl on the Train [is] a harrowing new suspense novel…a complex and thoroughly chilling psychological thriller… The Girl on the Train is one of those books where you can’t wait — yet almost can’t bear — to turn the page. It’s a stunning novel of dread.” –New York Daily News
“The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins is a psychologically gripping debut that delivers.” –The Missourian
“The Girl on the Train is the kind of slippery, thrilling read that only comes around every few years (see Gone Girl).” –BookPage
“Hawkins, a former journalist, is a witty, sharp writer with a gift for creating complex female characters.” –Cleveland Plain Dealer
“The Girl on the Train is as tautly constructed as Gone Girl or A.S.A. Harrison'sThe Silent Wife, and has something more: a main character who is all screwed up but sympathetic nonetheless. Broken, but dear. . . . No matter how well it's written, a suspense novel can fall apart in the last pages, with an overly contrived or unbelievable ending. Here, The Girl on the Train shines, with its mystery resolved by a left-field plot twist that works, followed, surprisingly, by what you might call a happy ending.”—Newsday
“I’m calling it now: The Girl on the Train is the next Gone Girl. Paula Hawkins’s highly anticipated debut novel is a dark, gripping thriller with the shocking ending you crave in a noir-ish mystery.” –Bustle
“Rachel takes the same train into London every day, daydreaming about the lives of the occupants in the homes she passes. But when she sees something unsettling from her window one morning, it sets in motion a chilling series of events that make her question whom she can really trust.”—Woman’s Day
“Hawkins’s debut novel is a tangle of unreliable narrators, but what will have readers talking is her deft handling of twists and turns and her eerily fine-tuned narrative. This is one creepy, dark thriller. . . . The book is smartly paced and delightfully complex. Just when it seems Hawkins is leading us one way, Rachel, Anna, or Megan change the game. Nothing can be taken for granted in The Girl on the Train, not even the account of the girl herself.”—Las Vegas Weekly
"Psychologically astute debut . . . The surprise-packed narratives hurtle toward a stunning climax, horrifying as a train wreck and just as riveting."—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“[A] chilling, assured debut. . . . Even the most astute readers will be in for a shock as Hawkins slowly unspools the facts, exposing the harsh realities of love and obsession's inescapable links to violence.”—Kirkus (starred review)
“intricate, multilayered psychological suspense debut, from a staggered timeline and three distinct female narrators. Rachel, who is unabashed in her darker instincts, anchors the narrative. Readers will fear, pity, sympathize and root for her, though she's not always understandable or trustworthy. . . . En route to a terrorizing and twisted conclusion, all three women—and the men with whom they share their lives—are forced to dismantle their delusions about others and themselves, their choices and their respective relationships.”—Shelf Awareness
"This month we're gearing up for Paula Hawkins's mystery The Girl on the Train. Its three narrators keep readers guessing as they try to suss out who's behind one character's shocking disappearance. Can you figure out who did it before they do?"—Martha Stewart Living
“What a thriller!”—People Style Watch
“Hawkins keeps the tension ratcheted high in this thoroughly engrossing tale of intersecting strangers and intimate betrayals. Kept me guessing until the very end.”—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times–bestselling author of the Detective D. D. Warren series
“I simply could not put it down.”—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times–bestselling author of the Rizzoli and Isles series
“Gripping, enthralling—a top-notch thriller and a compulsive read.”—S. J. Watson,New York Times–bestselling author of Before I Go to Sleep
“Be ready to be spellbound, ready to become as obsessed. . . . The Girl on the Train is the kind of book you’ll want to press into the hands of everyone you know, just so they can share your obsession and you can relive it.”—Laura Kasischke, author of The Raising
“What a group of characters, what a situation, what a book! It’s Alfred Hitchcock for a new generation and a new era.”—Terry Hayes, author of I Am Pilgrim
“Artfully crafted and utterly riveting. The Girl on the Train’s clever structure and expert pacing will keep you perched on the edge of your seat, but it’s Hawkins’s deft, empathetic characterization that will leave you pondering this harrowing, thought-provoking story about the power of memory and the danger of envy.”—Kimberly McCreight, New York Times–bestselling author of Reconstructing Amelia
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
RACHEL
FRIDAY, JULY 5, 2013
MORNING
There is a pile of clothing on the side of the train tracks. Light-blue cloth—a shirt, perhaps—jumbled up with something dirty white. It's probably rubbish, part of a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up the bank. It could have been left behind by the engineers who work this part of the track, they're here often enough. Or it could be something else. My mother used to tell me that I had an overactive imagination; Tom said that, too. I can't help it, I catch sight of these discarded scraps, a dirty T-shirt or a lonesome shoe, and all I can think of is the other shoe and the feet that fitted into them.
The train jolts and scrapes and screeches back into motion, the little pile of clothes disappears from view and we trundle on towards London, moving at a brisk jogger's pace. Someone in the seat behind me gives a sigh of helpless irritation; the 8:04 slow train from Ashbury to Euston can test the patience of the most seasoned commuter. The journey is supposed to take fifty-four minutes, but it rarely does: this section of the track is ancient, decrepit, beset with signalling problems and never-ending engineering works.
The train crawls along; it judders past warehouses and water towers, bridges and sheds, past modest Victorian houses, their backs turned squarely to the track.
My head leaning against the carriage window, I watch these houses roll past me like a tracking shot in a film. I see them as others do not; even their owners probably don't see them from this perspective. Twice a day, I am offered a view into other lives, just for a moment. There's something comforting about the sight of strangers safe at home.
Someone's phone is ringing, an incongruously joyful and upbeat song. They're slow to answer, it jingles on and on around me. I can feel my fellow commuters shift in their seats, rustle their newspapers, tap at their computers. The train lurches and sways around the bend, slowing as it approaches a red signal. I try not to look up, I try to read the free newspaper I was handed on my way into the station, but the words blur in front of my eyes, nothing holds my interest. In my head I can still see that little pile of clothes lying at the edge of the track, abandoned.
EVENING
The premixed gin and tonic fizzes up over the lip of the can as I bring it to my mouth and sip. Tangy and cold, the taste of my first-ever holiday with Tom, a fishing village on the Basque coast in 2005. In the mornings we'd swim the half mile to the little island in the bay, make love on secret hidden beaches; in the afternoons we'd sit at a bar drinking strong, bitter gin and tonics, watching swarms of beach footballers playing chaotic twenty-five-a-side games on the low-tide sands.
I take another sip, and another; the can's already half empty, but it's OK, I have three more in the plastic bag at my feet. It's Friday, so I don't have to feel guilty about drinking on the train. TGIF. The fun starts here.
It's going to be a lovely weekend, that's what they're telling us. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies. In the old days we might have driven to Corly Wood with a picnic and the papers, spent all afternoon lying on a blanket in dappled sunlight, drinking wine. We might have barbecued out back with friends, or gone to the Rose and sat in the beer garden, faces flushing with sun and alcohol as the afternoon went on, weaving home, arm in arm, falling asleep on the sofa.
Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies, no one to play with, nothing to do. Living like this, the way I'm living at the moment, is harder in the summer when there is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness, when everyone is out and about, being flagrantly, aggressively happy. It's exhausting, and it makes you feel bad if you're not joining in.
The weekend stretches out ahead of me, forty-eight empty hours to fill. I lift the can to my mouth again, but there's not a drop left.
MONDAY, JULY 8, 2013
MORNING
It's a relief to be back on the 8:04. It's not that I can't wait to get into London to start my week—I don't particularly want to be in London at all. I just want to lean back in the soft, sagging velour seat, feel the warmth of the sunshine streaming through the window, feel the carriage rock back and forth and back and forth, the comforting rhythm of wheels on tracks. I'd rather be here, looking out at the houses beside the track, than almost anywhere else.
There's a faulty signal on this line, about halfway through my journey. I assume it must be faulty, in any case, because it's almost always red; we stop there most days, sometimes just for a few seconds, sometimes for minutes on end. If I sit in carriage D, which I usually do, and the train stops at this signal, which it almost always does, I have a perfect view into my favourite trackside house: number fifteen.
Number fifteen is much like the other houses along this stretch of track: a Victorian semi, two storeys high, overlooking a narrow, well-tended garden that runs around twenty feet down towards some fencing, beyond which lie a few metres of no-man's-land before you get to the railway track. I know this house by heart. I know every brick, I know the colour of the curtains in the upstairs bedroom (beige, with a dark-blue print), I know that the paint is peeling off the bathroom window frame and that there are four tiles missing from a section of the roof over on the right-hand side.
I know that on warm summer evenings, the occupants of this house, Jason and Jess, sometimes climb out of the large sash window to sit on the makeshift terrace on top of the kitchen-extension roof. They are a perfect, golden couple. He is dark-haired and well built, strong, protective, kind. He has a great laugh. She is one of those tiny bird-women, a beauty, pale-skinned with blond hair cropped short. She has the bone structure to carry that kind of thing off, sharp cheekbones dappled with a sprinkling of freckles, a fine jaw.
While we're stuck at the red signal, I look for them. Jess is often out there in the mornings, especially in the summer, drinking her coffee. Sometimes, when I see her there, I feel as though she sees me, too, I feel as though she looks right back at me, and I want to wave. I'm too self-conscious. I don't see Jason quite so much, he's away a lot with work. But even if they're not there, I think about what they might be up to. Maybe this morning they've both got the day off and she's lying in bed while he makes breakfast, or maybe they've gone for a run together, because that's the sort of thing they do. (Tom and I used to run together on Sundays, me going at slightly above my normal pace, him at about half his, just so we could run side by side.) Maybe Jess is upstairs in the spare room, painting, or maybe they're in the shower together, her hands pressed against the tiles, his hands on her hips.
EVENING
Turning slightly towards the window, my back to the rest of the carriage, I open one of the little bottles of Chenin Blanc I purchased from the Whistlestop at Euston. It's not cold, but it'll do. I pour some into a plastic cup, screw the top back on and slip the bottle into my handbag. It's less acceptable to drink on the train on a Monday, unless you're drinking with company, which I am not.
There are familiar faces on these trains, people I see every week, going to and fro. I recognize them and they probably recognize me. I don't know whether they see me, though, for what I really am.
It's a glorious evening, warm but not too close, the sun starting its lazy descent, shadows lengthening and the light just beginning to burnish the trees with gold. The train is rattling along, we whip past Jason and Jess's place, they pass in a blur of evening sunshine. Sometimes, not often, I can see them from this side of the track. If there's no train going in the opposite direction, and if we're travelling slowly enough, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of them out on their terrace. If not—like today—I can imagine them. Jess will be sitting with her feet up on the table out on the terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, Jason standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. I can imagine the feel of his hands, the weight of them, reassuring and protective. 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.
TUESDAY, JULY 9, 2013
MORNING
The pile of clothes from last week is still there, and it looks dustier and more forlorn than it did a few days ago. I read somewhere that a train can rip the clothes right off you when it hits. It's not that unusual, death by train. Two to three hundred a year, they say, so at least one every couple of days. I'm not sure how many of those are accidental. I look carefully, as the train rolls slowly past, for blood on the clothes, but I can't see any.
The train stops at the signal as usual. I can see Jess standing on the patio in front of the French doors. She's wearing a bright print dress, her feet are bare. She's looking over her shoulder, back into the house; she's probably talking to Jason, who'll be making breakfast. I keep my eyes fixed on Jess, on her home, as the train starts to inch forward. I don't want to see the other houses; I particularly don't want to see the one four doors down, the one that used to be mine.
I lived at number twenty-three Blenheim Road for five years, blissfully happy and utterly wretched. I can't look at it now. That was my first home. Not my parents' place, not a flatshare with other students, my first home. I can't bear to look at it. 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. Even though I remember so clearly how it felt that time I looked up and noticed that the cream linen blind in the upstairs bedroom was gone, replaced by something in soft baby pink; even though I still remember the pain I felt when I saw Anna watering the rose-bushes near the fence, her T-shirt stretched tight over her bulging belly, and I bit my lip so hard, it bled.
I close my eyes tightly and count to ten, fifteen, twenty. There, it's gone now, nothing to see. We roll into Witney station and out again, the train starting to pick up pace as suburbia melts into grimy North London, terraced houses replaced by tagged bridges and empty buildings with broken windows. The closer we get to Euston, the more anxious I feel; pressure builds; how will today be? There's a filthy, low-slung concrete building on the right-hand side of the track about five hundred metres before we get into Euston. 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.
EVENING
The train I take in the evening, the 5:56, is slightly slower than the morning one—it takes one hour and one minute, a full seven minutes longer than the morning train despite not stopping at any extra stations. I don't mind, because just as I'm in no great hurry to get into London in the morning, I'm in no hurry to get back to Ashbury in the evening, either. Not just because it's Ashbury, although the place itself is bad enough, a 1960s new town, spreading like a tumour over the heart of Buckinghamshire. No better or worse than a dozen other towns like it, a centre filled with cafés and mobile-phone shops and branches of JD Sports, surrounded by a band of suburbia and beyond that the realm of the multiplex cinema and out-of-town Tesco. I live in a smart(ish), new(ish) block situated at the point where the commercial heart of the place starts to bleed into the residential outskirts, but it is not my home. My home is the Victorian semi on the tracks, the one I part-owned. In Ashbury I am not a homeowner, not even a tenant—I'm a lodger, occupant of the small second bedroom in Cathy's bland and inoffensive duplex, subject to her grace and favour.
Cathy and I were friends at university. Half friends, really, we were never that close. She lived across the hall from me in my first year, and we were both doing the same course, so we were natural allies in those first few daunting weeks, before we met people with whom we had more in common. We didn't see much of each other after the first year and barely at all after college, except for the occasional wedding. But in my hour of need she happened to have a spare room going and it made sense. I was so sure that it would only be for a couple of months, six at the most, and I didn't know what else to do. I'd never lived by myself, I'd gone from parents to flatmates to Tom, I found the idea overwhelming, so I said yes. And that was nearly two years ago.
It's not awful. Cathy's a nice person, in a forceful sort of way. She makes you notice her niceness. Her niceness is writ large, it is her defining quality and she needs it acknowledged, often, daily almost, which can be tiring. But it's not so bad, I can think of worse traits in a flatmate. No, it's not Cathy, it's not even Ashbury that bothers me most about my new situation (I still think of it as new, although it's been two years). It's the loss of control. In Cathy's flat I always feel like a guest at the very outer limit of her welcome. I feel it in the kitchen, where we jostle for space when cooking our evening meals. I feel it when I sit beside her on the sofa, the remote control firmly within her grasp. The only space that feels like mine is my tiny bedroom, into which a double bed and a desk have been crammed, with barely enough space to walk between them. It's comfortable enough, but it isn't a place you want to be, so instead I linger in the living room or at the kitchen table, ill at ease and powerless. I have lost control over everything, even the places in my head.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 10, 2013
MORNING
The heat is building. It's barely half past eight and already the day is close, the air heavy with moisture. I could wish for a storm, but the sky is an insolent blank, pale, watery blue. I wipe away the sweat on my top lip. I wish I'd remembered to buy a bottle of water.
I can't see Jason and Jess this morning, and my sense of disappointment is acute. Silly, I know. I scrutinize the house, but there's nothing to see. The curtains are open downstairs but the French doors are closed, sunlight reflecting off the glass. The sash window upstairs is closed, too. Jason may be away working. He's a doctor, I think, probably for one of those overseas organizations. He's constantly on call, a bag packed on top of the wardrobe; there's an earthquake in Iran or a tsunami in Asia and he drops everything, he grabs his bag and he's at Heathrow within a matter of hours, ready to fly out and save lives.
Jess, with her bold prints and her Converse trainers and her beauty, her attitude, works in the fashion industry. Or perhaps in the music business, or in advertising—she might be a stylist or a photographer. She's a good painter, too, plenty of artistic flair. I can see her now, in the spare room upstairs, music blaring, window open, a brush in her hand, an enormous canvas leaning against the wall. She'll be there until midnight; Jason knows not to bother her when she's working.
I can't really see her, of course. I don't know if she paints, or whether Jason has a great laugh, or whether Jess has beautiful cheek-bones. I can't see her bone structure from here and I've never heard Jason's voice. I've never seen them up close, they didn't live at that house when I lived down the road. They moved in after I left two years ago, I don't know when exactly. I suppose I started noticing them about a year ago, and gradually, as the months went past, they became important to me.
I don't know their names, either, so I had to name them myself. Jason, because he's handsome in a British film star kind of way, not a Depp or a Pitt, but a Firth, or a Jason Isaacs. And Jess just goes with Jason, and it goes with her. It fits her, pretty and carefree as she is. They're a match, they're a set. They're happy, I can tell. They're what I used to be, they're Tom and me five years ago. They're what I lost, they're everything I want to be.
EVENING
My shirt, uncomfortably tight, buttons straining across my chest, is pit-stained, damp patches clammy beneath my arms. My eyes and throat itch. This evening I don't want the journey to stretch out; I long to get home, to undress and get into the shower, to be where no one can look at me.
I look at the man in the seat opposite mine. He is about my age, early to midthirties, with dark hair, greying at the temples. Sallow skin. He's wearing a suit, but he's taken the jacket off and slung it on the seat next to him. He has a MacBook, paper-thin, open in front of him. He's a slow typist. He's wearing a silver watch with a large face on his right wrist—it looks expensive, a Breitling maybe. He's chewing the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he's nervous. Or just thinking deeply. Writing an important email to a colleague at the office in New York, or a carefully worded break-up message to his girlfriend. He looks up suddenly and meets my eye; his glance travels over me, over the little bottle of wine on the table in front of me. He looks away. There's something about the set of his mouth that suggests distaste. He finds me distasteful.
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.
One night last week, when I left my room to get myself a glass of water, I overheard Cathy talking to Damien, her boyfriend, in the living room. I stood in the hallway and listened. "She's lonely," Cathy was saying. "I really worry about her. It doesn't help, her being alone all the time." Then she said, "Isn't there someone from work, maybe, or the rugby club?" and Damien said, "For Rachel? Not being funny, Cath, but I'm not sure I know anyone that desperate."
THURSDAY, JULY 11, 2013
MORNING
I'm picking at the plaster on my forefinger. It's damp, it got wet when I was washing out my coffee mug this morning; it feels clammy, dirty, though it was clean on this morning. I don't want to take it off because the cut is deep. Cathy was out when I got home, so I went to the off-licence and bought two bottles of wine. I drank the first one and then I thought I'd take advantage of the fact that she was out and cook myself a steak, make a red-onion relish, have it with a green salad. A good, healthy meal. I sliced through the top of my finger while chopping the onions. I must have gone to the bathroom to clean it up and gone to lie down for a while and just forgotten all about it, because I woke up around ten and I could hear Cathy and Damien talking and he was saying how disgusting it was that I would leave the kitchen like that. Cathy came upstairs to see me, she knocked softly on my door and opened it a fraction. She cocked her head to one side and asked if I was OK. I apologized without being sure what I was apologizing for. She said it was all right, but would I mind cleaning up a bit? There was blood on the chopping board, the room smelled of raw meat, the steak was still sitting out on the countertop, turning grey. Damien didn't even say hello, he just shook his head when he saw me and went upstairs to Cathy's bedroom.
After they'd both gone to bed I remembered that I hadn't drunk the second bottle, so I opened that. I sat on the sofa and watched television with the sound turned down really low so they wouldn't hear it. I can't remember what I was watching, but at some point I must have felt lonely, or happy, or something, because I wanted to talk to someone. The need for contact must have been over-whelming, and there was no one I could call except for Tom.
There's no one I want to talk to except for Tom. The call log on my phone says I rang four times: at 11:02, 11:12, 11:54, 12:09. Judging from the length of the calls, I left two messages. He may even have picked up, but I don't remember talking to him. I remember leaving the first message; I think I just asked him to call me. That may be what I said in both of them, which isn't too bad.
The train shudders to a standstill at the red signal and I look up. Jess is sitting on her patio, drinking a cup of coffee. She has her feet up against the table and her head back, sunning herself. Behind her, I think I can see a shadow, someone moving: Jason. I long to see him, to catch a glimpse of his handsome face. I want him to come outside, to stand behind her the way he does, to kiss the top of her head.
He doesn't come out, and her head falls forward. There is something about the way she is moving today that seems different; she is heavier, weighed down. I will him to come out to her, but the train jolts and slogs forward and still there is no sign of him; she's alone. And now, without thinking, I find myself looking directly into my house, and I can't look away. The French doors are flung open, light streaming into the kitchen. I can't tell, I really can't, whether I'm seeing this or imagining it—is she there, at the sink, washing up? Is there a little girl sitting in one of those bouncy baby chairs up there on the kitchen table?
I close my eyes and let the darkness grow and spread until it morphs from a feeling of sadness into something worse: a memory, a flashback. I didn't just ask him to call me back. I remember now, I was crying. I told him that I still loved him, that I always would. Please, Tom, please, I need to talk to you. I miss you. No no no no no no no.
I have to accept it, there's no point trying to push it away. I'm going to feel terrible all day, it's going to come in waves—stronger then weaker then stronger again—that twist in the pit of my stomach, the anguish of shame, the heat coming to my face, my eyes squeezed tight as though I could make it all disappear. And I'll be telling myself all day, it's not the worst thing, is it? 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 his friends. It's not as if we got into a fight one night at home and I went for him with a golf club, taking a chunk out of the plaster in the hallway outside the bedroom. It's not like going back to work after a three-hour lunch and staggering through the office, everyone looking, Martin Miles taking me to one side, I think you should probably go home, Rachel. I once read a book by a former alcoholic where she described giving oral sex to two different men, men she'd just met in a restaurant on a busy London high street. I read it and I thought, I'm not that bad. This is where the bar is set.
EVENING
I have been thinking about Jess all day, unable to focus on anything but what I saw this morning. What was it that made me think that something was wrong? I couldn't possibly see her expression at that distance, but I felt when I was looking at her that she was alone. More than alone—lonely. Perhaps she was—perhaps he's away, gone to one of those hot countries he jets off to to save lives. And she misses him, and she worries, although she knows he has to go.
Of course she misses him, just as I do. He is kind and strong, everything a husband should be. And they are a partnership. I can see it, I know how they are. His strength, that protectiveness he radiates, it doesn't mean she's weak. She's strong in other ways; she makes intellectual leaps that leave him openmouthed in admiration. She can cut to the nub of a problem, dissect and analyse it in the time it takes other people to say good morning. At parties, he often holds her hand, even though they've been together years. They respect each other, they don't put each other down.
I feel exhausted this evening. I am sober, stone-cold. Some days I feel so bad that I have to drink; some days I feel so bad that I can't. Today, the thought of alcohol turns my stomach. But sobriety on the evening train is a challenge, particularly now, in this heat. A film of sweat covers every inch of my skin, the inside of my mouth prickles, my eyes itch, mascara rubbed into their corners.
My phone buzzes in my handbag, making me jump. Two girls sitting across the carriage look at me and then at each other, with a sly exchange of smiles. I don't know what they think of me, but I know it isn't good. My heart is pounding in my chest as I reach for the phone. I know this will be nothing good, either: it will be Cathy, perhaps, asking me ever so nicely to maybe give the booze a rest this evening? Or my mother, telling me that she'll be in London next week, she'll drop by the office, we can go for lunch. I look at the screen. It's Tom. I hesitate for just a second and then I answer it.
"Rachel?"
For the first five years I knew him, I was never Rachel, always Rach. Sometimes Shelley, because he knew I hated it and it made him laugh to watch me twitch with irritation and then giggle because I couldn't help but join in when he was laughing. "Rachel, it's me." His voice is leaden, he sounds worn out. "Listen, you have to stop this, OK?" I don't say anything. The train is slowing, and we are almost opposite the house, my old house. I want to say to him, Come outside, go and stand on the lawn. Let me see you. "Please, Rachel, you can't call me like this all the time. You've got to sort yourself out." There is a lump in my throat as hard as a pebble, smooth and obstinate. I cannot swallow. I cannot speak. "Rachel? Are you there? I know things aren't good with you, and I'm sorry for you, I really am, but . . . I can't help you, and these constant calls are really upsetting Anna. OK? I can't help you anymore. Go to AA or something. Please, Rachel. Go to an AA meeting after work today."
I pull the filthy plaster off the end of my finger and look at the pale, wrinkled flesh beneath, dried blood caked at the edge of my fingernail. I press the thumbnail of my right hand into the centre of the cut and feel it open up, the pain sharp and hot. I catch my breath. Blood starts to ooze from the wound. The girls on the other side of the carriage are watching me, their faces blank.
Product details
- Publisher : Riverhead Books; Reprint edition (July 12, 2016)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 336 pages
- ISBN-10 : 1594634025
- ISBN-13 : 978-1594634024
- Item Weight : 11.2 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.14 x 0.82 x 7.98 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #7,787 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #892 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- #1,098 in Suspense Thrillers
- #2,500 in Contemporary Romance (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
Videos
Videos for this product
2:09
Click to play video
A thriller that will keep you guessing every chapter
Honest Amber
Videos for this product
0:47
Click to play video
Honest Book Review The Girl On The Train
Becky Feigin
Videos for this product
1:01
Click to play video
If You Like...You Should Try: Suspense
Kindle Most Wanted
Videos for this product
0:59
Click to play video
Page Turner: The Girl on the Train
Cassandra Wisener
Videos for this product
1:46
Click to play video
Like This? Try That! Women Sleuths
Kindle Most Wanted
Videos for this product
0:56
Click to play video
The Girl on the train- Thriller novel - My honest review
ParichPK
About the author
PAULA HAWKINS worked as a journalist for fifteen years before writing her first novel. Born and brought up in Zimbabwe, Paula moved to London in 1989. Her first thriller, The Girl on the Train, has sold more than 23 million copies worldwide. Published in over fifty languages, it has been a Number 1 bestseller around the world and was a box office hit film starring Emily Blunt.
Paula's thrillers, Into the Water and A Slow Fire Burning, were also instant Number 1 bestsellers.
Customer reviews
Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them.
To calculate the overall star rating and percentage breakdown by star, we don’t use a simple average. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyzed reviews to verify trustworthiness.
Learn more how customers reviews work on AmazonCustomers say
Customers find the book well-written and engaging. They describe the story as suspenseful and intriguing. The writing style is described as fantastic and brilliant. Many readers find the book hard to put down and easy to follow along. However, some feel the first quarter of the book is depressing and boring.
AI-generated from the text of customer reviews
Customers enjoy the suspenseful story. They find the parts compelling and the mystery intriguing. The book is described as a psychological thriller, similar to Gone Girl. Readers appreciate the clever setup and characterizations. The book is told from multiple perspectives, with revelations occurring at the end.
"...aftermath of loss, with their own pathologies and pathos, shines as a hypnotic and nimble new comer in a genre burdened down with rigid rehashing of..." Read more
"...It's a great first novel. That is, the story. The story is very creative and her telling of it, writing excluded, is engaging and makes you not wish..." Read more
"...Other important topics discussed in this book are mental illness, the role of women in society, whether you can really know someone, and when, if..." Read more
"...From there the novel unfolds as a mystery/thriller, not unlike Gillian Flynn’s “Gone Girl,” as Rachel becomes involved with the lives of those whose..." Read more
Customers enjoy the book's readability. They find it an interesting and enjoyable weekend read with well-done narrators and excellent plot and characterization. The book is described as an excellent movie.
"...The characterizations are spot on...." Read more
"...It's a great first novel and I sincerely hope that Ms. Hawkins won't feel overwhelmed and cursed by it...." Read more
"...This book would make an excellent movie. I hope that Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck stay far, far away from it though. The key will be in the casting!" Read more
"...I think this is a great novel for those of you who are not big readers, or perhaps you are transitioning from young adult to adult books...." Read more
Customers enjoy the book's writing quality. They find it readable and engaging, with a good pace. The author has an imaginative style that brings the story to life. Many readers found the ending satisfying but not too tidy.
"...The selected sentences in this book were truly great quotes on what is a grueling battle, for some of us, to get through life...." Read more
"...While the pacing is generally very quick, I did feel a bit bored during the middle of the book, when I felt like the action slowed down a bit...." Read more
"...The books deserves 4.5 stars for story, characters, and writing, but the ending, with its unrealistic confession, was such a letdown and so poorly..." Read more
"...Does that mean it wasn’t well-written and well put together? No...." Read more
Customers enjoy the book's engaging style. They find it easy to read and keep turning the pages until the end. The story keeps readers guessing and captivated from the start.
"...It’s definitely a page-turner, but it has a slow start. If you enjoy this genre, then I definitely recommend this book...." Read more
"...Any book, to me, that keeps me turning the pages and ignoring my work, my kitchen, and my dirty laundry for two straight days because I can’t put it..." Read more
"...If you want a real page turner and "whodunit" to read, put this one on your list." Read more
"...It was a compelling story and had aspects of a thriller which made it a page turner...." Read more
Customers find the book engaging and easy to follow. They appreciate the seamless transition between the three main characters' voices. The set-up is good and the stories are complex but not confusing, keeping readers interested and unable to put the book down.
"...It's easy to read, easy to follow and there is no confusion, but hearing myself explain it, it did sound complicated...." Read more
"This book was hard to put down. It was a very fast and entertaining read. Would definitely read this one again!" Read more
"...It’s actually a perfect commuter read. Engaging but not too challenging – ideal for the girl (or boy) on the train." Read more
"...If I had the time, I would have read it all in one day. It's not hard. It's an easy, gripping read. That's why I'm giving it 4 stars...." Read more
Customers have different views on the character development. Some find the characters rich and nuanced, with a clear grasp of their motivations and personalities. Others feel that many of the characters are likable, with an overweight, drunk main character making poor decisions. The male characters are also mentioned as being given less attention.
"...She is a flawed but realistic character, one that I’ve identified more with than maybe any in any book I’ve read in a long time...." Read more
"...The imagery was strong but the characters seemed a little light; but that is what you come to expect from a thriller...." Read more
"...In addition to the well crafted plots, characters, terror, and suspense this book tells us how far we as a society need to go to respect women and..." Read more
"...train, is an alcoholic who has blackouts, which makes her a very unreliable narrator...." Read more
Customers find the book depressing and boring. They find the characters unlikable and uninteresting. The ending is lackluster and not thrilling enough for them. Overall, the story feels unoriginal and clichéd.
"...Yes, many of the characters in this book do horrible and deplorable things, but I see most of them as having redeemable qualities as well...." Read more
"...is waking up in her bed, naked, bloodied, and hungover, no memories from the night before...." Read more
"...Her chapters were almost meaningless to read, and she was very boring. The men in the book were terrible too!..." Read more
"...Then, the ending came and it was lackluster...." Read more
Customers find the book's pacing slow and dragging towards the end. They mention it lulls in certain parts and bounces back and forth through time.
"...bit bored during the middle of the book, when I felt like the action slowed down a bit. This is especially true, for me, in hindsight...." Read more
"...It’s definitely a page-turner, but it has a slow start. If you enjoy this genre, then I definitely recommend this book...." Read more
"...The women in this novel are unreliable, calculating and flighty, and the men are unquestionably flawed...." Read more
"...How emotive, cerebral and delicate this thriller truly is...." Read more
Reviews with images
Page turner!
Top reviews from the United States
There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later.
- Reviewed in the United States on June 26, 2015Paula Hawkins melancholy tell of what happens to the survivor’s of murder victims as they go on living in the aftermath of loss, with their own pathologies and pathos, shines as a hypnotic and nimble new comer in a genre burdened down with rigid rehashing of the procedural tropes in many mystery thrillers.
The story starts with Rachel piecing her life back together after being fired from her job. She is living with her flat mate Cathy, pretending to still be employed by riding the train into town each day, and generally snooping in the lives of her neighbors, imagining their specifics and superimposing her wishes on couples in her local park.
She’s a lonely, self-loathing alcoholic, approaching the hill’s bend who may or may not have murdered a familiar woman in a blackout fit of rage. She keeps reaching into the missing spaces in her memories for those lost hours in hopes of discovering just what happened to the pretty blonde reported by the local press as missing.
Along the way Rachel makes more than her fair share of missteps like attracting police attention toward her as a potential suspect when she really meant to aid the investigation, to identifying the wrong man as the murderer, causing his life undue pain, and even becoming friends with the victim’s husband, which blows up in her face when he confronts her about her lies.
The characterizations are spot on. Thirty-somethings, self-involved and reflecting on their experiences to find meaning in their identities and daily lives. Enter Rachel the character with the story’s biggest narrative perspective, filled with angst and despairing after being fired for an alcohol fueled emotional breakdown at work. She looks for meaning in the lives of others and hopes to find someone to love her chubby body and crows feet ridden face.
Meagan, the hot blond that everyman wants and every woman wants to be, is in similar shape. Her beauty is better, but her loneliness and longing are equally as strong as Rachel’s. The beautiful thing about Hawkins writing is she portrays these ladies desperate situations with striking visceral-ness. Their thoughts, feelings and perspective lunge from the page and right into your mind as the pieces of a real experience, though virtually distributed through the medium of the novel. In short these ladies breathe and live on and off the page.
I would find myself feeling like, “Poor pretty Meagan—so sad.” not knowing that I’d feel less connection to her after I learned what she’d done to motivate her potential murderer.
The roles were reversed for Rachel the books protagonist. I thought her quite unappealing at first when I thought she was a depressed and aging alcoholic. But when I discovered that she had several psychological pathologies, I loved her the way I love traffic pile-ups across the median.
Memories and how they fade over time is the biggest thematic concept discussed in the pages of The Girl On The Train. From Rachel’s pure blackout, to Meagan’s more nuanced memories of darker days locked within the vault of her lonely feelings we get a cobbled together view of the past life events that motivate the characters’ current actions.
Rachel’s cognition issues come from her drunken blackouts that leave holes in her memories. Meagan and Scott, her husband are both driven by faulty memories, either romanticized through distance from the events that inspired them, or due to constant rehearsal that glosses over the truest features from the past, respectively.
Loss and how we as people deal with it plays huge in the themes category as well. Rachel as the barren mother turned alcoholic tries to fill the void in her life by helping Scott find his missing piece—just who murdered his wife. But she had in turn lost her dream of being a mother when it was discovered her womb was barren. Scott lost his wife Meagan to the hands of an illusive murderer. Meagan, before dying had lost her way in life due to the deaths of two key people from her past and her resulting disillusionment that sees her seeking to fill that void by cheating on her husband to prove to herself that she is desirable/lovable to men.
Rachel’s pathological lying and constant meddling are attributes I loath to see in people I know, but on a character as nuanced and just plain crazy as Rachel, they are the life and breath of this narrative, which plays in the—what-about-the-people-who-knew-the-victim, realm.
And that is the fresh air that Hawkins brings to the genre. Every detective mystery I’ve read or even watched in movie theaters shows the detective’s perspective, or the victims—you know through flash backs. This one discusses what happens to those waiting to hear that the police have captured the slayer of their wife, neighbor, or the girl the protagonist obsessed over as they road the train to town.
Rachel, as an OCD nightmare stalker/private investigator sizzles as an unexpected suspense novel star who is an unreliable narrator and gets as close as law enforcement would to solving the murder when using their tactics.
The author mingles a bit of the lead character’s own paranoia and pathological nosiness into her sincere attempts at exposing the murderer—thereby exonerating herself from the memory gap she has of the night in question. How emotive, cerebral and delicate this thriller truly is.
From wondering if Rachel is the blackout killer, to the red herring of Dr. Adbic as the wanted murder, and then back to wondering if Rachel has actually killed Meagan again, I totally bought the slight of hand that author, Hawkins does right before my very eyes.
A novelist as skilled at misdirection as she, would definitely make a great up-close street magician. And that’s what the first half of this novel plays out as. A card trick of a tome that kept me wondering who-done-it, while all road lead to the sketchy protagonist in the genre specific trope of the detective did it, but doesn’t remember—this time the detective is a blackout drunk with self esteem issues and a histrionics complex to boot.
Read this dazzling New York Times Best Seller and recommend it to all your friends.
- Reviewed in the United States on April 11, 2015I normally don't write reviews for books that have anything over a few. I mean, what can a single person add when there are so many? It's all been said probably. Finding it is a problem, but it's all been said.
Either way, I feel compelled to say a few words about this book. It's a great first novel. That is, the story. The story is very creative and her telling of it, writing excluded, is engaging and makes you not wish to put it down until you're finished, which is fortunate because it's a short read. I read it yesterday, in fact. I'll add that I'm a slow reader and it took me from about 11:00 until about 2:00 a.m. with a few short interruptions. It was raining and I lazed about the house yesterday, but I digress. The point is that if you're a fast reader, you'll likely finish it much more quickly.
I don't understand this trend of "I look up and see *insert something here*... I am watching television... I am making tea.. I am standing in the doorway looking out..." I can't stand overly active first person novels. No one ever talks that way. Ever. I first noticed the overuse of that voice with Hunger Games. It annoyed me so much, that I didn't get past the first outdoor announcement scene. I couldn't stand it any longer. I got through this one, however. Perhaps because I simply had to see what was so Hitchcockian about it. I'm an enormous Hitchcock fan and it's a sure bet that if I hear a few people call it Hitchcockian, I'm going to do my darndest read it.
The second thing that bothers me is its predictability. I figured out, very early on, where this was going. On the other hand, to be completely fair, being a Hitchcock fan, I read a lot of mystery and suspense so I'm a bit more intuitive about it than say the average reader. Provided of course, that the author doesn't cheat. This one didn't so I applaud her for that. I hate cheats.
My best example of cheats is Matlock, the TV show from the 1980s. I still liked it, but there was no way anyone could ever figure it out because only at the end did Andy Griffith say, "So when you killed her, you slammed your arm in the doorway and broke this watch, which we found at the repair shop on 49th street." Well why didn't he tell US about the watch and the repair shop on 49th street?! Had I known, I would have figured it out too... maybe.
The point is that in this instance, Ms. Hawkins provides the bread crumbs, you just have to find the trail. That's always a good thing.
Story wise, I have one word to sum that up: WOW. It's not just the story, but her understanding of depression, unhappiness, misery and everything else in our lives. If she hasn't experienced all of these feelings before, then she deserves some sort of national book award for totally fooling us all.
Reading books in Kindle (yes, I have a point, just please bear with me now) has its benefits and drawbacks. There's nothing at all like smelling the new crisp paper pages of a brand new novel. You can see where you're at, where you're going. You can take it in public and read and it's proof that you're not reading some sort of smut and so on. However, Kindle has its benefits too. It's lightweight, you can have it on your phone in fact. You can take all your books with you anywhere and such. One thing too that Kindle does, at least in a couple of its apps (I don't think the phone) is see what other people highlighted in the book; that is, commonly highlighted. It's always fun to see what words touch a bunch of others.
The selected sentences in this book were truly great quotes on what is a grueling battle, for some of us, to get through life. For people who have either experienced it, or for those of us who have had family that has, it's a relief to see that they're not alone. It's kind of a kindred spirit.
As for the story itself, it's woven very well. Trying to explain the story to my mother and daughter, both blanched and said it was "overly complicated". That was interesting because when you're reading, it truly does not feel that way. It's easy to read, easy to follow and there is no confusion, but hearing myself explain it, it did sound complicated. That shows how clever Ms. Hawkins is with her writing. It's easy to understand.
All in all, I highly recommend it, even with it's minor shortcomings. It's a great first novel and I sincerely hope that Ms. Hawkins won't feel overwhelmed and cursed by it. From here on out, any novel she publishes will be under much scrutiny and compared to this one. I would just like to shake her hand and whisper in her ear that it was the same for Agatha Christie and look how prolific she is today.
Enjoy it everyone!
Top reviews from other countries
-
carmenReviewed in Spain on June 22, 2023
4.0 out of 5 stars Buen libro.
Buena lectura para verano.
-
paola gamezReviewed in Mexico on May 5, 2018
5.0 out of 5 stars Could not put it down
This is the first book I finished in less than 4 days. It is addictive and you just can't stop reading. I hesitated a bit to buy it, because I read that the amount of characters was confusing, and it is not true at all. Quite an easy and enjoyable reading. I would definitely recommend it to anyone who wants to enjoy an intriguing story.
- Greg at 2 Book Lovers ReviewsReviewed in Canada on August 26, 2017
5.0 out of 5 stars A ride on a crazy train!
Whenever there is one of these books, you know the ones, where the movie rights are sold as soon as the book comes off the press, I am two things: intrigued and skeptical. Intrigued - what is it about this book that has captured so many people so quickly? Skeptical – what did the marketing machine do to get this book out to so many people so quickly? Usually I don’t trust the big brotheresque marketing machine that seems to decide what the population is going to like before we even get it.
With that being said, I like to think that I go into these things with an open mind, and to be honest, I was immediately drawn into Rachel’s story. I loved the back and forth start of the story; I found that it complemented the confused storyline going on within Rachel’s mind. At several points in the story, I found myself asking (just like Rachel) – “Wait, what just happened?” I felt like I was right there with Rachel on that train ride to hell.
I’ve read quite a bit of complaining about the characters in The Girl on the Train. Personally, I thought that they were created brilliantly. Not one of them likable, hardly a redeemable characteristic amongst them. From the cheating spouses, the raging alcoholic, to the liars and manipulators…I loved to hate them all. Normally, I like to have a connection with a character, but with The Girl on the Train I was in complete shock at the depths of self-important assholery these characters could reach. It was a character train wreck, and I could not look away.
I dragged my wife to the movie shortly after I read the book (she actually came quite willingly). Did it live up to the book? No. Did it do the book justice? Yes. And my wife loved it! Will I read another book by Paula Hawkins in the future? Absolutely!
The Girl on the Train truly was a ride on a crazy train.
-
Juliano OliveiraReviewed in Brazil on April 15, 2017
5.0 out of 5 stars Instigante
Comprei para treinar a leitura em inglês. Livro interessante, com a história com diversos desdobramentos. O kindle tem vários recursos de leitura em outra língua, que não conhecia, e são ótimos.
-
Barbara SoldaniReviewed in Italy on June 3, 2018
5.0 out of 5 stars Bel libro, meglio del film
Ho scaricato questo ebook sul mio kindle paperwhite e l'ho letto in poco tempo perché la storia è avvincente e curiosa.
L'ho letto molto prima che uscisse il film in america e in italia e devo dire che la storia come spesso accade è molto più interessante in versione originale quindi consiglio di leggere questo libro, scaricandolo sui vostri ebook preferibilmente per l'ecologia e anche perché l'esperienza di leggere su kindle (nel mio caso) è davvero unica, niente riflessi, in spiaggia è comodissimo...ma questa è un altra recensione. buona lettura a tutti, salviamo gli alberi!!