Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, #3)

by Suzanne Collins

How else could I orient myself in this sea of gray?

Some walks you have to take alone.

I killed you, I think as I pass a pile. And you. And you. Because I did. It was my arrow,

More than ninety percent of the district’s population is dead.

District 13 was instrumental in 12’s destruction.

Still, I hate them. But, of course, I hate almost everybody now. Myself more than anyone.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to reach for him across the hundreds and hundreds of miles, to send my thoughts into his mind, to let him know he is not alone. But he is.

What they want is for me to truly take on the role they designed for me. The symbol of the revolution.

They have a whole team of people to make me over, dress me, write my speeches, orchestrate my appearances — as if that doesn’t sound horribly familiar

Then there’s Finnick Odair, the sex symbol from the fishing district,

it takes too much energy to stay angry with someone who cries so much.

Of course, I hate the Capitol, but I have no confidence that my being the Mockingjay will benefit those who are trying to bring it down.

To become the Mockingjay . . . could any good I do possibly outweigh the damage?

No one will fully understand — how it’s not just a flower, not even just President Snow’s flower, but a promise of revenge

Peeta doesn’t need a brush to paint images from the Games. He works just as well in words.

“Oh, no. It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people?” says Peeta. “It costs everything you are.”

A hush has fallen over the room, and I can feel it spreading across Panem.

My skin itches with the ashes of the dead.

In his hands, I am again a mockingjay.

On the final page, under a sketch of my mockingjay pin, Cinna’s written, I’m still betting on you.

“I’ll try and keep that in mind as they . . . remake you,” says Gale.

Coin and I must have vastly different definitions of frailty.

it’s even harder to groom a Mockingjay than to catch one.

I guess she’s used to seeing unpleasant things only on a screen.

Thinking like your prey . . . that’s where you find their vulnerabilities,”

“They’ll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you.”

The credit for that, of course, goes to Peeta. Alone, I can’t be the Mockingjay.

in my heart of hearts, I know we both failed.

“We’re still in the game.” I try to say this with optimism, but my voice cracks.

Just let them see you. That will do more for them than any doctor in the world could.”

The sounds of pain and grief begin to recede, to be replaced by words of anticipation.

The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That’s how they recognize me, why I belong to them.

Power. I have a kind of power I never knew I possessed. Snow knew it, as soon as I held out those berries.

If the Capitol wins, what will it do with a bunch of damaged slaves?”

“Fire is catching!” I am shouting now, determined that he will not miss a word. “And if we burn, you burn with us!”

“Don’t be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They’ve turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity.

Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you’re working with?

Music draws mockingjays like blossoms do bees,

“Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free.

The version Lucy Gray sung to Snow before attempting to go towards District 13

back then I could memorize almost anything set to music after a round or two.

Relation to Maude Ivory?

it sounds like a guy is trying to get his girlfriend to secretly meet up with him at midnight. But it’s an odd place for a tryst, a hanging tree, where a man was hung for murder. The murderer’s lover must have had something to do with the killing, or maybe they were just going to punish her anyway,

I mean she kinda nailed it

I used to think the murderer was the creepiest guy imaginable.

I think you’d agree if you knew it was Snow 💀

with every cheer, Peeta slips even farther from our grasp.

Eyes on the forest, not on the trees. Not on Peeta’s punishment or 13’s imminent blasting.

If you panic, it could spread like wildfire,”

Peeta. Blood like raindrops on the window. Like wet mud on boots.

Prim a doctor. She couldn’t even dream of it in 12. Something small and quiet, like a match being struck, lights up the gloom inside me. This is the sort of future a rebellion could bring.

Prim sounds about a thousand years old when she speaks. “Whatever it takes to break you.”

You don’t destroy what you want to acquire in the future.

It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”