If utopian fiction became the new trend, I wouldn't read it.

At home I used to spend calm, pleasant nights with my family. My mother knit scarves for the neighborhood kids. My father helped Caleb with his homework. There was a fire in the fireplace and peace in my heart, as I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing, and everything was quiet. I have never been carried around by a large boy, or laughed until my stomach hurt at the dinner table, or listened to the clamor of a hundred people all talking at once. Peace is restrained; this is free.

I close my eyes. I don't expect Four to reassure me, and he makes no effort to, but I feel better standing here than I did out there among the people who are my friends, my faction.

It's not often real that you encounter the real person behind a good-natured mask, the darkest part of someone. It's not comfortable what you do.

It was him or me. I chose me. But I feel dead too.

We believe that preparation eradicates cowardice, which we define as the failure to act in the midst of fear.

We believe in shouting for those who can only whisper, in defending those who cannot defend themselves.