we were riastanufulthep.ga A group of four friends—the Liars—whose friendship turns destructive. A revolution. An accident. A secret. Lies upon lies. True love. The truth. We Were Liars is a modern, sophisticated suspense novel from New York Times. We Were Liars by E. Lockhart - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File WE WERE LIARS is a modern, sophisticated suspense novel from National Book. Praise for we were liars “You're going to want to remember the title. gripping, heartrending, and terrifyingly smart, this book grabs you from the rst page—and.
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Go on, then. Ed followed Johnny, having stopped to help the staff unload the luggage from the motorboat. He was tall and slim. His skin was very dark: Indian heritage, wed later learn. He wore black- framed glasses and was dressed in dapper city clothes: a linen suit and striped shirt. The pants were wrinkled from traveling. Granddad set me down. Granny Tippers mouth made a straight line.
Then she showed all her teeth and went forward. You must be Ed. What a lovely surprise. He shook hands. Didnt Carrie tell you we were coming? Of course she did. Ed looked around at our white, white family.
Turned to Carrie. Wheres Gat? They called for him, and he climbed from the inside of the boat, taking off his life vest, looking down to undo the buckles.
Mother, Dad, said Carrie, we brought Eds nephew to play with Johnny. This is Gat Patil. Granddad reached out and patted Gats head. Hello, young man. He and Johnny are the best of friends. Its a big help to Eds sister if we take him for a few weeks. And, Gat? Youll get to have cookouts and go swimming like we talked about. But Gat didnt answer. He was looking at me.
His nose was dramatic, his mouth sweet. Skin deep brown, hair black and waving. Body wired with energy. Gat seemed spring- loaded. Like he was searching for something. He was contemplation and enthusiasm.
Ambition and strong coffee. I could have looked at him forever. Our eyes locked. I turned and ran away. Gat followed. I could hear his feet behind me on the wooden walkways that cross the island. I kept running.
He kept following. Johnny chased Gat. And Mirren chased Johnny. The adults remained talking on the dock, circling politely around Ed, cooing over baby Will. The littles did whatever littles do. We four stopped running at the tiny beach down by Cuddle down House. Its a small stretch of sand with high rocks on either side. No one used it much, back then. The big beach had softer sand and less seaweed. Mirren took off her shoes and the rest of us followed. We tossed stones into the water.
We just existed. I wrote our names in the sand. Cadence, Mirren, Johnny, and Gat. Gat, Johnny, Mirren, and Cadence. That was the beginning of us. He got what he wanted. The next year he begged to have him come for the entire summer. Gat came. Johnny was the rst grandson. My grandparents almost never said no to Johnny. It was just after breakfast.
Bess made Mirren play tennis with the twins and Taft. Johnny had started running that year and was doing loops around the perimeter path. Gat found me in the Clairmont kitchen and asked, did I want to take the boat out? Not really. I wanted to go back to bed with a book. Gat almost never said please. Take it out yourself. I cant borrow it, he said. I dont feel right.
Of course you can borrow it. Not without one of you. He was being ridiculous. Where do you want to go? I asked. I just want to get off- island. Sometimes I cant stand it here. I couldnt imagine, then, what it was he couldnt stand, but I said all right. After a bit, Gat cut the engine. We sat eating pisb tachios and breathing salt air. The sunlight shone on the water. Lets go in, I said. Gat jumped and I followed, but the water was so much colder than off the beach, it snatched our breath.
The sun went behind a cloud. We laughed panicky laughs and shouted that it was the stupidest idea to get in the water. What had we been thinking? There were sharks off the coast, everybody knew that. Dont talk about sharks, God! We scrambled and pushed each other, struggling to be the rst one up the ladder at the back of the boat. After a minute, Gat leaned back and let me go rst. Not because youre a girl but because Im a good person, he told me.
I stuck out my tongue. But when a shark bites my legs off, promise to write a speech about how awesome I was. Done, I said. Gatwick Matthew Patil made a delicious meal. It seemed hysterically funny to be so cold. We didnt have towels. We huddled together under a eece blanket we found under the seats, our bare shoulders touching each other.
Cold feet, on top of one another. This is only so we dont get hypothermia, said Gat. Dont think I nd you pretty or anything.
I know you dont. Youre hogging the blanket. A pause. Gat said, I do nd you pretty, Cady. I didnt mean that the 12 way it came out. In fact, when did you get so pretty? Its distracting. I look the same as always. You changed over the school year. Its putting me off my game. You have a game? He nodded solemnly. That is the dumbest thing I ever heard.
What is your game? Nothing penetrates my armor. Hadnt you noticed? That made me laugh. I thought it was working. We changed the subject. Talked about bringing the littles to Edgartown to see a movie in the afternoon, about sharks and whether they really ate people, about Plants Versus Zombies.
Then we drove back to the island. Not long after that, Gat started lending me his books and nding me at the tiny beach in the early evenings. Hed search me out when I was lying on the Windemere lawn with the goldens. We started walking together on the path that circles the island, Gat in front and me behind.
Wed talk about books or invent imaginary worlds. Sometimes wed end up walking several times around the edge before we got hungry or bored. Beach roses lined the path, deep pink. Their smell was faint and sweet. One day I looked at Gat, lying in the Clairmont hammock with a book, and he seemed, well, like he was mine. Like he was my particular person. I got in the hammock next to him, silently. I took the pen 13 out of his hand he always read with a pen and wrote Gat on the back of his left, and Cadence on the back of his right.
He took the pen from me. Wrote Gat on the back of my left, and Cadence on the back of my right. I am not talking about fate. I dont believe in destiny or soul mates or the supernatural. I just mean we understood each other. All the way.
But we were only fourteen. I had never kissed a boy, though I would kiss a few the next school year, and somehow we didnt label it love. Dad had left us, and Mummy and I had all that shopping to do, consulting the decorator and everything. Johnny and Mirren met us at the dock, pink in the cheeks and full of summer plans. They were staging a family tennis tournament and had bookmarked ice cream recipes.
We would go sailing, build bonres. The littles swarmed and yelled like always. The aunts smiled chilly smiles. After the bustle of arrival, everyone went to Clairmont for cocktail hour. I went to Red Gate, looking for Gat. Red Gate is a much smaller house than Clairmont, but it still has four bedrooms up top. I walked to the kitchen door and looked through the screen. He was standing at the counter wearing a worn gray T- shirt and jeans. His shoulders were broader than I remembered. He untied a dried ower from where it hung upside down on a ribbon in the window over the sink.
The ower was a beach rose, pink and loosely constructed, the kind that grows along the Beechwood perimeter. Gat, my Gat. He had picked me a rose from our favorite walking place. He had hung it to dry and waited for me to arrive on the island so he could give it to me. I had kissed an unimportant boy or three by now. I had lost my dad. I had come here to this island from a house of tears and falsehood and I saw Gat, and I saw that rose in his hand, and in that one moment, with the sunlight from the window shining in on him, the apples on the kitchen counter, the smell of wood and ocean in the air, I did call it love.
It was love, and it hit me so hard I leaned against the screen door that still stood between us, just to stay vertical. I wanted to touch him like he was a bunny, a kitten, something so special and soft your ngertips cant leave it alone. The universe was good because he was in it. I loved the hole in his jeans and the dirt on his bare feet and the scab on his elbow and the scar that laced through one eyebrow.
As I stood there, staring, he put the rose in an envelope. He searched for a pen, banging drawers open and shut, found one in his own pocket, and wrote. Gat stamped the envelope. Wrote a return address. It wasnt for me. I left the Red Gate door before he saw me and ran down to the perimeter. I watched the darkening sky, alone. I tore all the roses off a single sad bush and threw them, one after the other, into the angry sea. Her name was Raquel. Johnny had even met her. Johnny said Raquel was a modern dancer and wore black clothes.
Mirrens brother, Taft, told me Raquel had sent Gat a package of homemade brownies. Liberty and Bonnie told me Gat had pictures of her on his phone. Gat didnt mention her at all, but he had trouble meeting my eyes. That rst night, I cried and bit my ngers and drank wine I snuck from the Clairmont pantry.
I spun violently into the sky, raging and banging stars from their moorings, swirling and vomiting. I hit my st into the wall of the shower.
I washed off the shame and anger in cold, cold water. Then I shivered in my bed like the abandoned dog that I was, my skin shaking over my bones. I tilted my square chin high. We sailed and made bonres.
I won the tennis tournament. We made vats of ice cream and in thesun.
One night, the four of us ate a picnic down on the tiny beach. Steamed clams, potatoes, and sweet corn. The staff made it.
I didnt know their names. Johnny and Mirren carried the food down in metal roasting pans. We ate around the ames of our bonre, dripping butter onto the sand.
Then Gat made triple- decker smores for all of us. I looked at his hands in the relight, sliding marshmallows onto a long stick. Where once hed had our names written, now he had taken to writing the titles of books he wanted to read. That night, on the left: Being and. On the right: Nothingness.
I had writing on my hands, too. A quotation I liked. On the left: Live in. On the right: today. Want to know what Im thinking about? Gat asked. Yes, I said. No, said Johnny. Im wondering how we can say your granddad owns this island. Not legally but actually. Please dont get started on the evils of the Pilgrims, moaned Johnny.
Im asking, how can we say land belongs to anyone? Gat waved at the sand, the ocean, the sky. Mirren shrugged. People download and sell land all the time. Cant we talk about sex or murder? Gat ignored him. Maybe land shouldnt belong to people at all. Or maybe there should be limits on what they can own. He leaned forward. When I went to India this winter, on that 17 volunteer trip, we were building toilets. Building them because people there, in this one village, didnt have them.
We all know you went to India, said Johnny. You told us like forty- seven times. Here is something I love about Gat: he is so enthusiastic, so relentlessly interested in the world, that he has trouble imagining the possibility that other people will be bored by what hes saying.
Even when they tell him outright. But also, he doesnt like to let us off easy. He wants to make us thinkeven when we dont feel like thinking. He poked a stick into the embers. Im saying we should talk about it. Not everyone has private islands. Some people work on them.
Some work in factories. Some dont have work. Some dont have food. Stop talking, now, said Mirren. Stop talking, forever, said Johnny. We have a warped view of humanity on Beechwood, Gat said. I dont think you see that. Shut up, I said. Ill give you more chocolate if you shutup. And Gat did shut up, but his face contorted. He stood abruptly, picked up a rock from the sand, and threw it with all his force. He pulled off his sweatshirt and kicked off his shoes.
Then he walked into the sea in his jeans. I watched the muscles of his shoulders in the moonlight, the spray kicking up as he splashed in. He dove and I thought: If I dont follow him now, that girl Raquels got him. If I dont follow him now, hell go away. From the Liars, from the island, from our family, from me. I threw off my sweater and followed Gat into the sea in my dress. I crashed into the water, swimming out to where he lay 18 on his back. His wet hair was slicked off his face, showing the thin scar through one eyebrow.
I reached for his arm. He startled. Stood in the waist- high sea. Sorry, I whispered. I dont tell you to shut up, Cady, he said. I dont ever say that to you. I know. He was silent. Please dont shut up, I said.
I felt his eyes go over my body in my wet dress. I talk too much, he said. I politicize everything. I like it when you talk, I said, because it was true.
When I stopped to listen, I did like it. Its that everything makes me He paused. Things are messed up in the world, thats all. Maybe I should Gat took my hands, turned them over to look at the words written on the backs I should live for today and not be agitating all the time. My hand was in his wet hand. I shivered. Poor little Cadence Sinclair is wealthy. She is loved. She is one of the Sinclairs, a good-looking "old-money Democrat" family, think the Kennedys, without the political aspirations.
They have names like Liberty, Taft, and Tipper. They go to Ivy League schools. They have trust funds. They have sired a generation of children, the leader of which is Cadence.
Cadence and her crew call themselves "The Liars. The Liars supposedly cause trouble. They don't really. They do almost nothing. Cadence herself is sick. She is prone to theatrics, and she is not-so-secretly in love with Gat.
She gets headaches. She feels self-pity. She is privileged. She doesn't realize it. This is the story of a wealthy, beautiful family. I do not know what changed. This is the story about a girl's headaches. Why did I go into the water alone at night? Where were my clothes? Did I really have a head injury from the swim, or did something else happen? This is a story about The Liars. And their spectacularly brilliant conversations for the entire fucking summer.
They have baby oil spread on their bodies. Two bottles of it lie on the grass. The Writing: I plunge down, down to rocky rocky bottom, and I can see the base of Beechwood Island and my arms and legs feel numb but my fingers are cold. Slices of seaweed go past as I fall. And then I am up again, and breathing. I am fine, I am alive. I swim to shore. I really have a problem with the writing, but this is just a matter of taste.
But then again, I've never been a fan of this type of prose. Needless to say, I don't like e. The writing is so often choppy, haphazardly punctuated. The first-person narrator also has a tendency to use very, very dramatic imagery to describe situations. Some situations are false. Then he pulled out a handgun and shot me in the chest.
I was standing on the lawn and I fell. The bullet hole opened wide and my heart rolled out of my rib cage and down into a flower bed. Blood gushed rhythmically from my open wound, then from my eyes, my ears, my mouth. That, there, was a description of how she FELT. It confused me as fuck until I realized that she didn't actually get hurt, which made it even more confusing when she did actually hurt herself.
Every time Gat said these things, so casual and truthful, so oblivious—my veins opened. My wrists split. I bled down my palms. I went light-headed. I thought that was her being overdramatic again , until I realized that the guy was fucking bandaging her up afterwards. The main character has a huge tendency to use purple prose.
She describes her migraines like they were the end of the world, which, I understand to some people they might be, but if you're getting a fucking migraine, there's really no bloody need to get all freaking poetic about it. A witch has been standing there behind me for some time, waiting for a moment of weakness. She holds an ivory statue of a goose. It is intricately carved.
I turn and admire it only for a moment before she swings it with shocking force. It connects, crushing a hole in my forehead. I can feel my bone come loose. The witch swings the statue again and hits above my right ear, smashing my skull.
Blow after blow she lands, until tiny flakes of bone litter the bed and mingle with chipped bits of her once-beautiful goose. That entire passage is one of many throughout the book about her headaches. I just couldn't take it. The Main Character: You think you understand the world so much better than I do. She's beautiful, but wounded, and "mysterious" and revered, just for the sake of her blood alone, for the sake of her family's name alone.
Think about it. If you were a Kennedy, it doesn't matter if you look like an elephant stepped on your head when you were born. People are still going to love you and worship you and whisper your name with reverence because you're a motherfucking Kennedy.
It's this way with the Sinclairs, only there's no paparazzi following them around. All of the benefits, and no family curse. But somehow Cadence finds a way to be a rebel-without-a-cause anyway. She's rich. She's hypocritical about her wealth because she criticizes her own fucking family for being wealthy. She does stupid shit like give things away to random people because she can.
Before the summer is over, Cadence's room will have been empty because she keeps giving shit away for no fucking reason.
Cadence is unaware of others. She is spoiled. She takes her wealth for granted. She doesn't pay any attention to "the help. Steamed clams, potatoes, and sweet corn. The staff made it. I'm sorry, but I can't sympathize with such a whiny person who's completely unaware of how privileged she is, headaches be damned.
Paulo is the gardener. And my penance is to become the monster he always saw in me. He is Indian-American. Gat Patil. He is the nephew of her aunt's boyfriend, and they've known each other for years.
He is self-aware. Too self-aware in the pretentious way that teenagers can often be, but his character feels authentically teenaged. I liked him. He is accepted into The Liars, but he's not altogether accepted in the family. Because of his skin color, because of his lack of family money, he feels left out. And I can sympathize with him. And I wonder why the fuck he cares about a waste of air like Cadence. View all comments. Jul 18, Lola rated it did not like it Recommends it for: Don't bother.
But really, what a weird story and an uncomfortable and pretentious atmosphere this We Were Liars book has. Why were they called Liars anyway?
Why are they supposed to be so special? Because some of them are rich? So what? Did it annoy you?
How I just wrote what I wrote? If it did, this is not the book for you. At least, not for me. The pacing is uneven and the story very repetitive. Again with the subject, is it mainly about So confusing The love story, by the way, is so so so dull. This is all because of the hype… Oh, the hype was there. But we all know hype lies and loves doing it. He '' Thrilling, beautiful, and blisteringly smart, We Were Liars is utterly unforgettable.
Except, it was boring. I wish I could burn it. This was, without a doubt, one of the most powerful and well-crafted books I have read in a really long time. Elements that made this book outstanding: Talk about setting yourself up for success! This might not make sense unless you've read the book, but wow it was powerful.
I was always questioning ev This was, without a doubt, one of the most powerful and well-crafted books I have read in a really long time. I was always questioning everything. You know when an author brings in an epic moment-stopping line? This was full of those awesome drops! Everything suddenly clicked into place and it was glorious.
I think sometimes side characters can feel inconsequential and here they felt really important. There weren't very many things I didn't like, to be honest, but there was one: It does't make sense to me. I don't want to say anything in case spoilers, but I don't think it's the perfect title. Two final things: I have a theory about this book that I'm really excited to discuss so I'm going to make a video about it! Like explode cry. Lots of tears. And I've only ever cried at 2 other books.
View all 67 comments. Jeffrey I love this book Jan 28, Henity You said pretty much all I wanted to say. Gat and Cady's relationship hit home for me. Great review. Apr 12, Nov 07, Wendy Darling rated it did not like it Shelves: We were tedious. View all 61 comments. View all 32 comments. Nov 18, Emily May rated it liked it Shelves: It's true what they're saying: So I will just say two things. Even though I only gave it 3 stars. The fact that it got 3 stars after annoying me so much will hopefully give you some indication of how much I liked the idea.
It's a very clever book and an incredibly sophisticated piece of YA. The writing was too choppy and fragmented and I hated the frequent use of nouns as adjectives. Like this: Skin deep brown, hair black and waving. Body wired with energy. Gat seemed spring-loaded. Like he was searching for something. He was contemplation and enthusiasm.
Ambition and strong coffee. I could have looked at him forever. View all 68 comments. It's been awhile since I have so totally hated a book. I'm surprised at how varied the feelings on here about this book are I still love them Let's get to why I hated this so very frigging much.
The main character is a twit Welcome to the beautiful Sinclair family.
No one is a criminal. No one is an addict. No one is a failure. The Sinclairs are athletic, tall and handsome.
That's actually the good part o It's been awhile since I have so totally hated a book. That's actually the good part on her family. In some parts of the book the author tries and make the character act like she has redeeming qualifications-but then a short few pages later I just want to smash her again.
The writing style: Good grief.. I thought it was only going to last for a few pages. Tell him the ones from the Boston house. The cream ones with the embroidery. And later, I told her I had. But Bess has asked Mirren to do the same thing, and neither one of us begged Granddad for the fucking tablecloths.
Then that lovely twist of an ending: I'm probably going to hell for this but don't click if you gonna whine She would be seeing dead people cuz that head of her's was fucking empty of anything else. Cady the main character keeps talking about bleeding.. Did she cut or was that just supposed to be a metaphor or some crap? Now after reading this crap I need: And lastly.. GO suck monkey ass.. Courtney I completely agree with this review!
Nov 30, I especially appreciated the gifs- huge Amy Poehler fan- and how fitting t I just finished We Were Liars, it was okay, but I enjoyed this review more! I especially appreciated the gifs- huge Amy Poehler fan- and how fitting they were.
Ever considered writing a book? Tragic, yet hauntingly beautiful story. View all 7 comments. People who like mind fucks. Recommended to Steph by: I went into We Were Liars one cocky son of a biscuit eater, feeling above it all right from page one.
All the while, I was sitting on the sidelines with my shades on, posted up with my arms folded, saying, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hot potato. I even had an ARC sitting on my shelf for the long I went into We Were Liars one cocky son of a biscuit eater, feeling above it all right from page one. I even had an ARC sitting on my shelf for the longest time, but due to a lot of the hype, I kept putting it off.
I highly value her opinion when it comes to books, because we almost always agree. So when I happened to get my hands on the audiobook, I thought, "What the hell? I was supposed to read and review this anyway, right? I can see how the fragmented sentences could be a pain to read, but this might be one of those cases where it sounds better out loud.
That being said, I if you haven't read this book, possibly check out the audio version first. It felt like a really random story about a rich, white girl and her white girl problems, crying her white girl tears and I felt myself unsure about what the point of it all was. But somewhere along the lines, I started to become intrigued with the story because it became this strange, wild thing that I couldn't piece together. Lockhart uses a very odd narration with fragmented sentences and strange descriptions, but I thought it was beautiful and unique.
It added a very creepy layer on top the the existing oddness. It makes you question the main character, her account of the incident and the entire book.
She's not very reliable and has the habit to cut off mid-sentence. I'm not sure if that was used as a way to distract the reader or if it was to used to make us question her sanity. Maybe a little bit of both. Either way, it worked on me. As things started to heat up and I reached the cusp of the climax, the narrator's voice increased in intensity. She began talking faster, became very emotional, then suddenly on the verge of tears! By the end, I was all: I know this review might not be the most helpful in the world, but it's true what everyone says about We Were Liars.
You should absolutely go in blind, with no expectations and let this book take your feels as it sees fit. If you are a fan of psychological thrillers like Stephanie Kuehn's Charm and Strange or Complicit , than this one may be up your alley. I'll be here to hold you when you're finish. More reviews and other fantastical things at Cuddlebugery. View all 52 comments. Mar 01, karen rated it liked it Shelves: View all 73 comments. So yeah, I just decided to read it and hoped it would be good and looking at it in retrospective this actually was the best decision I could have made!
And I want you all to scream: And before you ask, yes I screamed it loud and clear!!! XD Meet the Liars: She is curiosity and rain. He is effort and snark. Skin deep borwn, hair black and waving. It was a really nice and fast read and it definitely exceeded my expectations.
Truth be told, it completely messed with my mind. I do not suffer fools. I like a twist of meaning. View all 60 comments. Sep 27, Miranda Reads rated it it was ok Shelves: Cadence and her family spend every summer on a private island, courtesy of her racist and classist grandfather. All of her aunts constantly vie for the grandfather's attention and favor in an attempt to keep ahold of the family fortune. Cadence and her cousins consider themselves above such petty actions and spend most summers making trouble, being rich and taking advantage of the liquor bar.
Then, two summers ago, something terrible and tragic happens. Everyone knows but Candace And she's bound and determined to find out, one way or another. I don't want to go into too much depth with the plot because I strongly feel that by giving away the twist even hints at the twist would completely ruin the novel. The twist was literally the only thing that kept me going.
Candace ooo, that girl This chick literally goes to a private island every summer I guess I understand why the author does this, by the end of the novel, I felt so bad for this poor little girl, who only could go to a single island every summer. Honestly, I don't know how she could handle it. I suppose she did have one, overarching hobby: I'm not kidding.
Her only hobby is waxing poetic about how how in love she is. And this is not normal love, this is YA love shudders. Which is a whole other class of adoration.
There's this: The universe was good because he was in it. Her talking about love nearly made me put the book down. In typical YA fashion, she is more in love with the idea of being love than feeling any emotion. Just her whining on and on about how much she loves the boy OR about how her rich family.
Audiobook Comments The reader did her best with what she was given. Blog Instagram Twitter View all 40 comments. Its quiet calamity. The suspense is painted on rather thickly, which is not to say that readers will not form an accurate theory early on. The plot introduces itself in a vague manner and slowly unravels. I found that the messages held more power than the characters delivering them—the sum was definitely greater than its parts. Which fit the tone nicely. This review may seem just as ambiguous as the story itself, but it must be if you wish to obtain the full effect of its delivery.
I will say this, however: We Were Liars is a haunting portrayal of a group of teenagers who have formed a sacred bond; each one striving to be free and longing for acceptance.
They consider love more important than social and economic stature, and are displeased with the prejudices surrounding their world. They are young. They are passionate. They are imperfect. They each suffer their own personal injustice. And this is their story.
What if we could somehow stop being the Beautiful Sinclair Family and just be a family? What if we could stop being different colors , different backgrounds, and just be in love? The story is told through the voice of a confused, emotional, and dejected eighteen year old girl—and the writing remained consistent with her distinctive perspective.
It was poetic and profound—drifting in as a gentle breeze and building to the swirling force of a hurricane. It may not knock your socks off, but it certainly took my breath away. She made me act normal. Because I was. Because I could. She told me to breathe and sit up.