We're supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love, not actually being in love.

The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt...and I could shatter into strange razor-sharp shards.

Panem et Circenses" translates into 'Bread and Circuses.' The writer was saying that in return for full bellies and entertainment, his people had given up their political responsibilities and therefore their power.

In our world, I rank music somewhere between hair ribbons and rainbows in terms of usefulness.

An ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are.

So I thought if I stopped being so, you know, wounded, we could take a shot at just being friends. - Peeta Mellark

I cover my face with my arms because this isn't happening. It isn't possible. For someone to make Peeta forget he loves me . . . no one can do that.