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“Nothing appears more surprising to those, who consider human affairs with a philosophical eye, than the easiness with which the many are governed by the few;
The words courtesy of the capitol end up stamped across my butt.
No way to control the outcome of the reaping or what follows it. So don’t feed the nightmares. Don’t let yourself panic. Don’t give the Capitol that. They’ve taken enough already.
Peacekeepers, that is — and the richer folk in town.
we Abernathys were known rebels back in the day, and apparently we still carry the scent of sedition, scary and seductive in equal parts. Rumors spread after my father’s death, rumors that the fire had not been an accident. Some say he died sabotaging the mine,
They hang the man and flog the woman Who steals the goose from off the common, Yet let the greater villain loose That steals the common from the goose.
The law demands that we atone When we take things we do not own,
Eye for and eye
If they conspire the law to break. This must be so but they endure Those who conspire to make the law.
She says that’s just a teaspoon of trouble in a river of wrong.
Because the reaping’s going to happen no matter what I believe. Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.”
that’s part of our trouble. Thinking things are inevitable. Not believing change is possible.”
Because while it’s a fine idea, thinking about a world with no reaping, I don’t really see it happening. The Capitol has all the power and that’s that.
The head of a snake hisses at the beak of a long-necked bird. I flatten out my hand and see that their enameled scales and feathers travel around the piece until they merge and become indistinguishable.
She touches the snake’s head, then the bird’s, in turn. “It takes a lot to break these two. They’re survivors.”
Treaty of Treason, which is basically the surrender terms for the war. Most of the people in District 12 weren’t even alive then, but we’re sure here to pay the price.
The Peacekeepers keep firing, mostly as a warning but hitting a few unfortunates at the edge of the crowd.
One of the assistants appears with a tray of glasses filled with a pale liquid. He accidentally offers one to me — “Champagne?” — before he realizes his mistake. “Whoops! None for the children!”
Pain stabs my chest, and I wonder if a person’s heart can really break. Probably. The word brokenhearted had to come from somewhere. I imagine my heart busted into a dozen glassy red pieces, their hard, jagged edges stabbing into my flesh at every beat. It may not be scientific, but it matches what I feel. Part of me thinks I will die right now, bleeding out on the inside. But it isn’t going to be that simple.
Plutarch was right. I did mess up. Big-time. And I will pay for it with my death and with the broken hearts and lives of everyone who loves me.
We know this doesn’t happen— he pays for it with his life and the DEATH of everyone who loves him.
the way we do in the Seam when someone dies, and got back to work.
Leaning on Sid about his schoolwork so he might get a coveted aboveground mine job
Coveted ):
Woodbine no longer seems reckless since he got to die in 12 and not in some sadistic arena out west like I will.
Molded plastic seats in an array of neon colors
First time we don’t see faded colors is in the train to the capitol, but it’s cheap plastic not shiny metal…?
“Listen, Louella, if you let them treat you like an animal, they will. So don’t let them.”
Everything seems to be made of plastic in this train: cart, seats, utensils, cups, plates.
The plastic-upholstered furniture is softer and stickier than our compartment seats.
“That’s not what happened,” I say. “None of the footage has been tampered with — not really time to do that properly,” says Plutarch. “I just did a little card- stacking to help you out.”
“Really? How? You’re not a Gamemaker. You’re not even a stylist. You’re nothing but a low-rent escort hanging on by your fingernails to the trashiest district in Panem.”
Maysilee asks for coffee, a rich person drink in 12,
“Shall we start with your body hair? All the bugs gone?” So that’s what the chemicals were. Insecticides. If I was going to be around long enough to worry about long-term effects, I might get angry.
wonder if she thinks of my nose as a snout, my hair as fur, my feet as paws.
She says all the Covey girls are a mystery, it’s half their charm.
You are on a high horse, mister. And someday someone will knock you off it straight into your grave.
A terrible, dark grief begins to well up inside me, threatening to drown me, but I force it back down. Swallow the sadness, clamp a lid on it, dam it up. They will not use my tears for their entertainment.
All the miseries of the last two days can no longer be denied: the throbbing headache from the rifle butt at the reaping, the terror of the tasing, the heartbreak of my loved ones’ good-byes, the toxic shower, the humiliating parade before Panem, the chariot crash, and worst of all, the horror of being soaked in Louella’s blood. Everything hurts, inside and out.
And while Lenore Dove will forever be my true love, Louella is my one and only sweetheart.
I still can’t completely wrap my head around the fact that Louella’s gone.
“In the early Games, I didn’t ask the tributes what they wanted because the answer seemed so obvious. You want to live. But then I realized, there are many desires beyond that.
Two tributes reaped from one family . . . are they just the unluckiest family in Panem?
“It’s because I’m being punished for coming up with a plan to sabotage the Capitol’s communication system. I’m too valuable to kill, but my son is disposable.”
“So, if it’s a machine, it can be broken, right?” Beetee eyes Ampert. “Yes, in theory. Practice is always a bit trickier. Now let’s connect our potatoes.”
“Everyone acts like the odds aren’t in our favor, but I’m sure we can beat those odds!”
Games or no Games, if you’ve got a decent bone in your body, you hate a bully.
A fragile collection of muscles and bones, a few quarts of blood, wrapped up in a paper-thin package of skin. That’s all I am. As I pass through the doors of this marble fortress, I have never felt more breakable.
sometimes the only thing you can control is your attitude to a situation.
I think about how many people spent their lives building this place, how many died before its completion, so that the Heavensbees could have somewhere to hang their pictures.
Although most of us learn our letters in school, there aren’t a lot of books in 12.
They can’t destroy what really matters. “Do you read, Haymitch?” Plutarch asks. “I can read.” “No, I meant, do you like to read?” “Depends on what.” “I’m the same,” says Plutarch. “Reading in general isn’t a popular pastime in the Capitol. It’s a shame. Everything you need to know about people is right here in this room.”
“I think he believes you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” I respond. Snow snorts. “Ah, the homey aphorisms of District Twelve are alive and well.”
“Do you know much about doves, Haymitch?” “They’re peaceful.” “If they are, they’re outliers. All the birds I’ve encountered are vicious.” A dribble of bloody spittle leaks from Snow’s mouth. “Bet I know a thing or two about your dove.” “Like what?” “Like she’s delightful to look at, swishes around in bright colors, and sings like a mockingjay. You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder, because her plans don’t include you at all.”
