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But the only thing that distracts me from my current situation is fantasizing about killing President Snow.

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
Killing
Situation
President
Thing
Fantasizing
Distracts
Current
Currents
Snow

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Poison. The perfect weapon for a snake.
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I poke around in the pile, about to settle on some cod chowder, when Peeta holds out a can to me. “Here.” I take it, not knowing what to expect. The label reads LAMB STEW.
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Well you are a piece of work aren't you?
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In our world, I rank music somewhere between hair ribbons and rainbows in terms of usefulness.
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So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts.
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I'm so tired, Katniss.
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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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It’s the first time I’ve ever kissed a boy, which should make some sort of impression I guess, but all I can register is how unnaturally hot his lips are from the fever.
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He frosted under heavy guard.
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I send a silent thank-you to Dalton for suggesting I wash off the makeup. How ridiculous, how perverse I would feel presenting that painted Capitol mask to these people. The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That's how they recognize me, why I belong to them.
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Then Octavia drops to her knees, rubs the hem of a skirt against her cheek, and burst into tears. It's been so long, she gasps, since I've seen anything pretty.
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Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate?
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There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead! I can hear my voice rising in anger. But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows.
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Yes, I’m a mouse. Squeak, squeak. Now shoo-shoo back to your little bug friends,” said Rirped, picking up a hunk of dried beef. He tore a off a piece with his teeth and noticed Boots hadn’t moved. He pulled back his lips to reveal a row of jagged teeth and gave her a sharp hiss.
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Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there.
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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.
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Frankly, I could use a little sugarcoating.
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I know. I was hoping, I say. Exactly. Because you're desperate, says Haymitch. I don't argue because, of course, he's right.
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Whose is it, do you think? I say finally. No telling, says Finnick. Why don't we let Peeta claim it, since he died today?
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We could do it, you know.
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