I don't write about adolescence. I write about war. For adolescents.

It's funny, because even though they're rattling on about the Games, it's all about where they were or what they were doing or how they felt when a specific event occurred. . . . Everything is about them, not the dying boys and girls in the arena

A spark could be enough to set them ablaze.

I guess there isn’t a rule book for what might be unacceptable to do to another human being.

As we trudge back through the woods, we reach a boulder, and both Gale and I turn our heads in the same direction, like a pair of dogs catching a scent on the wind. Cressida notices and asks what lies that way. We admit, without acknowledging each other, it's our old hunting rendez-vous place. She wants to see it, even after we tell her it's nothing really. Nothing but a place where I was happy, I think.

I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you.

People deal with me, but they are genuinely fond of Prim. Maybe there will be enough fondness to keep her alive.