The Girls: A Novel by Emma ClineThe Girls: A Novel by Emma Cline

The Girls: A Novel

byEmma Cline

Paperback | June 14, 2016 | Large Print

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THE INSTANT BESTSELLER • An indelible portrait of girls, the women they become, and that moment in life when everything can go horribly wrong

NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY
The Washington Post • NPR • The Guardian • Entertainment Weekly • San Francisco Chronicle • Financial Times • Esquire • Newsweek • Vogue • Glamour • People • The Huffington Post • Elle • Harper’s Bazaar • Time Out • BookPage • Publishers Weekly • Slate

Northern California, during the violent end of the 1960s. At the start of summer, a lonely and thoughtful teenager, Evie Boyd, sees a group of girls in the park, and is immediately caught by their freedom, their careless dress, their dangerous aura of abandon. Soon, Evie is in thrall to Suzanne, a mesmerizing older girl, and is drawn into the circle of a soon-to-be infamous cult and the man who is its charismatic leader. Hidden in the hills, their sprawling ranch is eerie and run down, but to Evie, it is exotic, thrilling, charged—a place where she feels desperate to be accepted. As she spends more time away from her mother and the rhythms of her daily life, and as her obsession with Suzanne intensifies, Evie does not realize she is coming closer and closer to unthinkable violence.

Finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize • Finalist for the National Book Critics Circle John Leonard Award • Shortlisted for The Center for Fiction First Novel Prize • The New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice • Emma Cline—One of Granta’s Best of Young American Novelists

Praise for The Girls

“Spellbinding . . . a seductive and arresting coming-of-age story.”The New York Times Book Review

“Extraordinary . . . Debut novels like this are rare, indeed.”The Washington Post

“Hypnotic.”—The Wall Street Journal

“Gorgeous.”—Los Angeles Times

“Savage.”—The Guardian

“Astonishing.”—The Boston Globe

“Superbly written.”—James Wood, The New Yorker

“Intensely consuming.”—Richard Ford

“A spectacular achievement.”—Lucy Atkins, The Times

“Thrilling.”—Jennifer Egan

“Compelling and startling.”—The Economist
Emma Cline was the winner of The Paris Review’s Plimpton Prize in 2014. She is from California.
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Title:The Girls: A NovelFormat:Paperback | Large PrintDimensions:384 pages, 9.2 × 6.12 × 1.11 inPublished:June 14, 2016Publisher:Diversified PublishingLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0735208182

ISBN - 13:9780735208186

Reviews

Rated 3 out of 5 by from Not worth the hype I found the book to be very slow, it wasn't one of those books that I can't put down.
Date published: 2017-03-08
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Not what I expected #plumreview I found the plot was very slow and it was a rather dull read.
Date published: 2017-02-03
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Great Read Such a great read. The writing is fantastic - I couldn't put it down. Recommend for any female who felt alone and unsure of themselves during their teen years. Really taps into the vulnerability of humans, loved it.
Date published: 2017-01-27
Rated 2 out of 5 by from Creepy. I want to give the author credit for creating such a creepy book as it must take skill. I felt uncomfortable the whole time reading it.
Date published: 2017-01-24
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Chilling exploration of female jealousy, sexuality and identity Emma Cline's writing reminds me so much of Gillian Flynn's as its incredibly dark, filled with dread and angst and dives into the most intimate and unattractive interpretations of female experience. I loved how The Girls analyzed female jealousy, sexuality and identity and how they are reflected as being disconnected to others or entirely fictionalized versions of ourselves. Unfortunately, even though the story itself was eerie and gripping, it still couldn't detach itself and find its own individuality from the real crime it was inspired by. Overall, I absolutely loved this novel and think it completely lives up to the hype its been getting.
Date published: 2017-01-24
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Good Book Poor Ending I was so excited for this book! I had been looking forward to reading it for months and I really enjoyed it... until I finished it. I was so disappointed with how the story ends. I wanted to follow the characters a little further through their lives. I felt like it ended to abruptly with not quite enough closure.
Date published: 2017-01-18
Rated 2 out of 5 by from So stylized it's boring This book is likely to fall into one of two categories for people; love it, or hate it. The writing is very good, if a little indulgent (many overly descriptive moments and large words for no reason); and the story itself is very intriguing, once you get into it. It's comparison to Virgin Suicides is bang on. For me The Girls suffers from its own stylistic nature being boring at the beginning. You need to get at least 25% through before you start to understand the cadence and style of Emma Cline's writing. You are likely to hate this book if you can't stand stories about 'poor little rich girls'. But you will like it if you've ever felt all alone and rejected even though you had a nice room, food always available and money at your reach. Overall I think this book will be widely considered better than it is because of the clever writing style. I wouldn't immediately turn down a book in the future by Cline as there is obvious writing talent there. But I would scrutinize the topic of the plot closely to ensure I wouldn't want to wring the neck of the main character for being a selfish, rude and pitiful girl. I might have forgiven the behaviour if it was only as a teenager. Unfortunately she doesn't learn anything from her adolescent years and is just as despicable as an adult. In the end my low rating is because; no matter how good the writing is, when you can't stand the characters in the novel it's nearly impossible to have any sympathy for them. This book has very realistic characters and reminds me that no one person is without major flaws. I just hope that none of my personal flaws or those of the people around me are as selfish, violent or sexually shameful as those shown by the characters in this book.
Date published: 2017-01-14
Rated 2 out of 5 by from Wasn't as good as I had hoped It had a really interesting premise, but I found it kind of boring. It wasn't terrible, but moved too slowly for my liking. I found myself skimming large parts of the book.
Date published: 2017-01-04
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Wasn't what I expected It was something different then I thought but I ended up really enjoying this book
Date published: 2016-12-31
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Not What I was Hoping For The Girls was a quick and enjoyable read, but I didn’t love it. I really wanted to dig into more of the actual cult dynamic! That said, the book is called “The Girls”, and that’s more or less what you get – a book about girls and the way they relate to one another during important formative years. I don’t need any redeeming qualities in a character to like them, but Evie sort of fell flat for me too. This is a strong debut and I look forward to seeing what Cline comes up with next.
Date published: 2016-12-15
Rated 4 out of 5 by from A great read! This book seemed loosely based on the Manson family girls. I found it was a book I could hardly put down.
Date published: 2016-12-10
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Keeps you Interested. As someone who used to be a curious teenager, the main characters infatuation with these older "cool girls" that she sees around is def. relate able. The book had me hooked, I finished it within in a couple days. Sort of reminded me of the Manson Family though
Date published: 2016-12-03

Read from the Book

Adapted from THE GIRLS by Emma Cline, available everywhere June 14th, 2016. I looked up because of the laughter, and kept looking because of the girls.   I noticed their hair first, long and uncombed. Then their jewelry catching the sun. The three of them were far enough away that I saw only the periphery of their features, but it didn’t matter—I knew they were different from everyone else in the park. Families milling in a vague line, waiting for sausages and burgers from the open grill. Women in checked blouses scooting into their boyfriends’ sides, kids tossing eucalyptus buttons at the feral-looking chickens that overran the strip. These long-haired girls seemed to glide above all that was happening around them, tragic and separate. Like royalty in exile.   I studied the girls with a shameless, blatant gape: it didn’t seem possible that they might look over and notice me. My hamburger was forgotten in my lap, the breeze blowing in minnow stink from the river. It was an age when I’d immediately scan and rank other girls, keeping up a constant tally of how I fell short, and I saw right away that the black-haired one was the prettiest. I had expected this, even before I’d been able to make out their faces. There was a suggestion of otherworldliness hovering around her, a dirty smock dress barely covering her ass. She was flanked by a skinny redhead and an older girl, dressed with the same shabby afterthought. As if dredged from a lake. All their cheap rings like a second set of knuckles. They were messing with an uneasy threshold, prettiness and ugliness at the same time, and a ripple of awareness followed them through the park. Mothers glancing around for their children, moved by some feeling they couldn’t name. Women reaching for their boyfriends’ hands. The sun spiked through the trees, like always—the drowsy willows, the hot wind gusting over the picnic blankets—but the familiarity of the day was disturbed by the path the girls cut across the regular world. Sleek and thoughtless as sharks breaching the water.   1   It was the end of the sixties, or the summer before the end, and that’s what it seemed like, an endless, formless summer. The Haight populated with white-garbed Process members handing out their oat-colored pamphlets, the jasmine along the roads that year blooming particularly heady and full. Everyone was healthy, tan, and heavy with decoration, and if you weren’t, that was a thing, too—you could be some moon creature, chiffon over the lamp shades, on a kitchari cleanse that stained all your dishes with turmeric.   But that was all happening somewhere else, not in Petaluma with its low-hipped ranch houses, the covered wagon perpetually parked in front of the Hi-Ho Restaurant. The sun-scorched crosswalks. I was fourteen but looked much younger. People liked to say this to me. Connie swore I could pass for sixteen, but we told each other a lot of lies. We’d been friends all through junior high, Connie waiting for me outside classrooms as patient as a cow, all our energy subsumed into the theatrics of friendship. She was plump but didn’t dress like it, in cropped cotton shirts with Mexican embroidery, too-tight skirts that left an angry rim on her upper thighs. I’d always liked her in a way I never had to think about, like the fact of my own hands.   Come September, I’d be sent off to the same boarding school my mother had gone to. They’d built a well-tended campus around an old convent in Monterey, the lawns smooth and sloped. Shreds of fog in the mornings, brief hits of the nearness of salt water. It was an all-girls school, and I’d have to wear a uniform—low-heeled shoes and no makeup, middy blouses threaded with navy ties. It was a holding place, really, enclosed by a stone wall and populated with bland, moon-faced daughters. Camp Fire Girls and Future Teachers shipped off to learn 160 words a minute, shorthand. To make dreamy, overheated promises to be one another’s bridesmaids at Royal Hawaiian weddings.   My impending departure forced a newly critical distance on my friendship with Connie. I’d started to notice certain things, almost against my will. How Connie said, “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” as if we were shopgirls in London instead of inexperienced adolescents in the farm belt of Sonoma County. We licked batteries to feel a metallic jolt on the tongue, rumored to be one-eighteenth of an orgasm. It pained me to imagine how our twosome appeared to others, marked as the kind of girls who belonged to each other. Those sexless fixtures of high schools.   Every day after school, we’d click seamlessly into the familiar track of the afternoons. Waste the hours at some industrious task: following Vidal Sassoon’s suggestions for raw egg smoothies to strengthen hair or picking at blackheads with the tip of a sterilized sewing needle. The constant project of our girl selves seeming to require odd and precise attentions.   As an adult, I wonder at the pure volume of time I wasted. The feast and famine we were taught to expect from the world, the countdowns in magazines that urged us to prepare thirty days in advance for the first day of school.   Day 28: Apply a face mask of avocado and honey.   Day 14: Test your makeup look in different lights (natural, office, dusk).   Back then, I was so attuned to attention. I dressed to provoke love, tugging my neckline lower, settling a wistful stare on my face whenever I went out in public that implied many deep and promising thoughts, should anyone happen to glance over. As a child, I had once been part of a charity dog show and paraded around a pretty collie on a leash, a silk bandanna around its neck. How thrilled I’d been at the sanctioned performance: the way I went up to strangers and let them admire the dog, my smile as indulgent and constant as a salesgirl’s, and how vacant I’d felt when it was over, when no one needed to look at me anymore.   I waited to be told what was good about me. I wondered later if this was why there were so many more women than men at the ranch. All that time I had spent readying myself, the articles that taught me life was really just a waiting room until someone noticed you—the boys had spent that time becoming themselves.   Adapted from THE GIRLS by Emma Cline. Copyright © 2016 by Emma Cline. Reprinted by arrangement with Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

Editorial Reviews

“Spellbinding . . . A seductive and arresting coming-of-age story hinged on Charles Manson, told in sentences at times so finely wrought they could almost be worn as jewelry . . . [Emma] Cline gorgeously maps the topography of one loneliness-ravaged adolescent heart. She gives us the fictional truth of a girl chasing danger beyond her comprehension, in a Summer of Longing and Loss.”—The New York Times Book Review “[The Girls reimagines] the American novel . . . Like Mary Gaitskill’s Veronica or Lorrie Moore’s Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?, The Girls captures a defining friendship in its full humanity with a touch of rock-memoir, tell-it-like-it-really-was attitude.”—Vogue “Debut novels like this are rare, indeed. . . . The most remarkable quality of this novel is Cline’s ability to articulate the anxieties of adolescence in language that’s gorgeously poetic without mangling the authenticity of a teenager’s consciousness. The adult’s melancholy reflection and the girl’s swelling impetuousness are flawlessly braided together. . . . For a story that traffics in the lurid notoriety of the Manson murders, The Girls is an extraordinary act of restraint. With the maturity of a writer twice her age, Cline has written a wise novel that’s never showy: a quiet, seething confession of yearning and terror.”—The Washington Post “Outstanding . . . Cline’s novel is an astonishing work of imagination—remarkably atmospheric, preternaturally intelligent, and brutally feminist. . . . Cline painstakingly destroys the separation between art and faithful representation to create something new, wonderful, and disorienting.”—The Boston Globe “Finely intelligent, often superbly written, with flashingly brilliant sentences, . . . Cline’s first novel, The Girls, is a song of innocence and experience. . . . In another way, though, Cline’s novel is itself a complicated mixture of freshness and worldly sophistication. . . . At her frequent best, Cline sees the world exactly and generously. On every other page, it seems, there is something remarkable—an immaculate phrase, a boldly modifying adverb, a metaphor or simile that makes a sudden, electric connection between its poles. . . . Much of this has to do with Cline’s ability to look again, like a painter, and see (or sense) things better than most of us do.”—The New Yorker “Breathtaking . . . So accomplished that it’s hard to believe it’s a debut. Cline’s powerful characters linger long after the final page.”—Entertainment Weekly (Summer Must List) “A mesmerizing and sympathetic portrait of teen girls.”—People (Summer’s Best Books) “The Girls isn’t a Wikipedia novel, it’s not one of those historical novels that congratulates the present on its improvements over the past, and it doesn’t impose today’s ideas on the old days. As the smartphone-era frame around Evie’s story implies, Cline is interested in the Manson chapter for the way it amplifies the novel’s traditional concerns. Pastoral, marriage plot, crime story—the novel of the cult has it all.”—New York Magazine