Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He has stopped hissing at me. Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.
Flight is essential, but I can’t let my fear show.
Look, if you wanted to be babied you should have asked Peeta.
Birds are settling down for the night, singing lullabies to their young.
I had to do that. At least once.
Courage only counts when you can count.
The idea of being strong for someone else having never entered their heads, I find myself in the position of having to console them. Since I’m the person going in to be slaughtered, this is somewhat annoying.
I knew it. In this way, Peeta’s not hard to predict. While I was wallowing around on the floor of that cellar, thinking only of myself, he was here, thinking of me. Shame isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel.
That if desperate times call for desperate measures, then I’m free to act as desperately as I wish.
Because I’m selfish. I’m a coward. I’m the kind of girl who, when she might actually be of use, would run to stay alive and leave those who couldn’t follow to suffer and die.
But if you want to find peace, you must first be able to hope it is possible.
Once I’m on my feet I realize escape might not be so easy.
My nightmares are usually about losing you. I’m okay once I realize you’re here.
His dad said even the cavemen had geniuses among them. Somebody had thought up the wheel.
There are much worse games to play.
Let the Seventy-forth Hunger Games begin, Cato, I think. Let them begin for real.
But don’t worry; as I’ve been saying – and this has been very clever of me, I’m sure you’ll agree – if you put enough pressure on coal, it’ll turn to pearls!
I start to crack at four hundred to one.
I walk around the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there’s a knock on the door. Effie’s calling me to dinner. Good. I’m starving.
Somehow it always comes back to coal at school.