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I go back to my room and lie under the covers, trying not to think of Gale and thinking of nothing else.

Suzanne Collins

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Suzanne Collins
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: August 10
Executive Producer
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Hartford
Connecticut
Suzanne Marie Collins
Suzanne Collins
Rooms
Lying
Else
Back
Nothing
Trying
Gale
Think
Covers
Thinking
Room

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I thought he wanted it, anyway, I say. Not like this, Haymitch says. He wanted it to be real.
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And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen when we get home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.
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So what I'd really like is to try and conceal him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a feeling his ego isn't going to go for that suggestion.
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Then I get it, what it means. At least, for me. District 12 only has three existing victors to choose from. Two male. One female... I am going back into the arena.
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We had to save you because you're the mockingjay, Katniss, says Plutarch. While you live, the revolution lives.
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My death could, in fact, save him. If it can't, no matter. It's enough to die of spite. To punish Haymitch, who, of all the people in this rotting world, has turned Peeta and me into pieces in his Games. I trusted him. I put what was precious in Haymitch's hands. And he has betrayed me.
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Because it doesn't matter anymore, and because I'm so desperately lonely I can't stand it.
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Pity does not get you aid. Admiration at your refusal to give in does.
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As we ride the elevator Gale finally says “You're still angry.” “And you're still not sorry,” I reply. I will stand by what I said. Do you want me to lie about it?” he asks. “No, I want you to rethink it and come up with the right opinion,” I tell him.
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Just one more thing. I kill Snow.
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Because something is significantly wrong with a creature that sacrifices its children's lives to settle its differences. You can spin it any way you like... But in the end, who does it benefit? No one. The truth is, it benefits no one to live in a world where these things happen
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What do you think? I whisper to Peeta. About the fire? I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine, he says through gritted teeth.
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Whatever it takes to break you.
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Of course you are. The tributes were necessary to the Games, too. Until they weren't, I say. And then we were very disposable - right, Plutarch?
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I have not wept since the death of my parents, said Luxa quietly. But I am thought to be unnatural in this respect.
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Let the Seventy-forth Hunger Games begin, Cato, I think. Let them begin for real.
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I’m in a shallow hole, not filled with the humming orange bubbles of my hallucination but with old, dead leaves.
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Here began countless days of hunting and snaring, fishing and gathering, roaming together through the woods, unloading our thoughts while we filled our game bags. This was the doorway to both sustenance and sanity. And we were each other's key.
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You're alive, I whisper, pressing my palms against my cheeks, feeling the smile that's so wide it must look like a grimace. Peeta's alive.
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Yeah, we wouldn't want to lose our little Mockingjay when she's finally begun to sing.
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