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

If you won't talk about yourself, at least compliment the audience. Just keep turning it back around, all right. Gush.

Most rats read. Our frustration is, we cannot hold a pen to write.

‎I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay right here and cause all kinds of trouble.

A light was on in the kitchen. His mother sat at the kitchen table, as still as a statue. Her hands were clasped together, and she stared fixatedly at a small stain on the tablecloth. Gregor remembered seeing her that way so many nights after his dad had disappeared. He didn't know what to say. He didn't want to scare her or shock her or ever give her any more pain. So, he stepped into the light of the kitchen and said the one thing he knew she wanted to hear most in the world. "Hey, Mom. We're home.

My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in.

And so I'm stupid for thinking they might be useful. Because of something Johanna Mason said while she was oiling her breasts for wrestling.