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They hadn’t counted on the highly controlled jabberjay having the brains to adapt to the wild, to pass on its genetic code, to thrive in a new form. They hadn’t anticipated its will to live.
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
Code
Counted
Wild
Genetic
Pass
Adapt
Brain
Brains
Form
Thrive
Live
Hadn
Highly
Controlled
Anticipated
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Because I can't handle the nightmares. Not without you.
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Anyway, even if she's sugarcoating my good points, I appreciate it. Frankly, I could use a little sugarcoating.
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Haymitch in my head full-time. Horrifying
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What happens when we get back? I don't know. I guess we try and forget. I don't want to forget.
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Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.
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Aim higher in case you fall short.
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Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had an agreement not to lie to each other.
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If he wants me broken, then I will have to be whole.
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It's to the Capitol's advantage to have us divided among ourselves. Another tool to cause misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between the starving workers [of the Seam] and those who can generally count on supper and thereby ensure we will never trust one another.
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Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of make my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind.
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In really bad times, the hungriest would gather at his door at nightfall, vying for the chance to earn a few coins to feed their families by selling their bodies. Had I been older when my father died, I might have been among them. Instead I learned to hunt.
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You want a piece of advice? said Ripred. Don't bother. I know what you'll say. The whole thing's stupid, said Gregor. Quite the contrary. I was going to say that life is short. There are only a few good things in it, really. Don't pretend that one isn't happening. said Ripred.
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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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I don't write about adolescence. I write about war. For adolescents.
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I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking.
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Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people.
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it is a perfect weapon
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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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I can hear him weeping but I don't care. They probably won't even bother to question her, she's so far gone. Gone right off the deep end years ago in her Games. There's a good chance I'm headed in the same direction. Maybe I'm already going crazy and no one has the heart to tell me. I feel crazy enough.
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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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