Quote

Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.

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
Thinking
Hand
Maybe
Eye
Spasm
Hands
Squeeze
Looks
Reassuring
Right
Nervous
Giving
Meant
Think
Gives

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so people really do tear out their hair and beat the ground with their fists
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As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve.
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This is the first kiss that we're both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another.
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To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed.
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Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena.
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Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink.
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While you live, the revolution lives
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My name is Katniss Everdeen. Why am I not dead? I should be dead.
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One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn't mattered.
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But in my head I can hear Haymitch's smug, if slightly exasperated, words: Yes, that's what I'm looking for, sweetheart.
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Our romance became a key strategy for our survival in the arena. Only it wasn't just a strategy for Peeta.
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They erase my face with a layer of pale makeup and draw my features back out.
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Frankly, I could use a little sugarcoating.
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The raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where the mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is 'please'. Pity, not vengeance sends my arrow flying into his skull.
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The anguish I always feel when she's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face.
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All I can think of is the emaciated bodies of children on our kitchen table as my mother prescribes what the parent's can't give. More food.
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A faint light burned in the pit revealing a furry creature hunched over a stone slab, fiddling with something. At first Gregor raised a warning hand. He thought it was a rat. Then the creature lifted his head and Gregor recognized what was left of his dad.
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Cleaning me up is just a preliminary step to determining my new look. With my acid-damaged hair, sunburned skin, and ugly scars, the prep team has to make me pretty and then damage, burn, and scare me in a more attractive way.
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Frankly, our ancestors don't seem much to brag about. I mean, look at the state they left us in, with the wars, the broken planet. Clearly, they didn't care about what would happen to the people who came after them.
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