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Mockingjay

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Suzanne Collins
Suzanne Collins

Suzanne Collins is an acclaimed American author, born on August 10, 1962. She is known for her unique literary style and profound thematic explorations, with her most famous work being the 'Hunger Games' series. more

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“But one day I’ll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won’t ever really go away. I’ll tell them how I survive it. I’ll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I’m afraid it could be taken away. That’s when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I’ve seen someone do. It’s like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years. But there are much worse games to play.”

MockingjayCatching FireKatniss EverdeenThe Hunger Games
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“Coriolanus thought about what it had felt like to be in the arena, where there were no rules, no laws, no consequences to one’s actions. The needle of his moral compass had swung madly without direction. Fueled by the terror of being prey, how quickly he himself had become a predator, with no reservations about smashing Bobbin to death. He’d transformed, all right, but not into anything he was proud of.”

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“Instead of pulling back, he leans in closer, searching my face. "You think I'm heartless." "I know you're not. But I won't tell you it's okay," I say. Now he draws back, almost impatiently. "Katniss, what difference is there, really, between crushing our enemy in a mine or blowing them out of the sky with one of Beetee's arrows? The result is the same." "I don't know. We were under attack in Eight, for one thing. The hospital was under attack," I say. "Yes, and those hoverplanes came from District Two," he says. "So, by taking them out, we prevented further attacks." "But that kind of thinking...you could turn it into an argument for killing anyone at any time. You could justify sending kids into the Hunger Games to prevent the districts from getting out of line," I say.”

WarMockingjayThe Hunger Games
Book:Mockingjay
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“Meus filhos, que não sabem que brincam sobre um cemitério. Peeta diz que vai ficar tudo bem. Temos um ao outro. E o livro. Podemos fazê-los compreender de uma maneira que os torne ainda mais corajosos. Mas um dia eu terei que dar uma explicação sobre os meus pesadelos. Por que eles acontecem. Por que eles realmente jamais acabarão. Direi a eles como sobrevivo aos pesadelos. Direi a eles que nas manhãs desagradáveis é impossível sentir prazer em qualquer coisa que seja, porque temo que essa coisa me possa ser tirada. É quando faço uma lista em minha cabeça com todos os atos de bondade que vi alguém realizando. É como um jogo. Repetitivo. Até um pouco entediante após mais de vinte anos. Mas há jogos muito piores do que esse.”

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“That’s when I hear Maysilee begin to scream. In a flash, I’m on my feet and thrashing through the smoky tunnel in the hedge. I spy bright patches of pink up ahead, hear honking, not unlike Lenore Dove’s geese. My ax is out of my belt, drawn and ready as I leave the holly bushes for a whirlwind of feathers. The two dozen waterbirds remind me of ones I’ve seen at the lake. Long-legged. Beaks like sword blades — thin, narrow, and deadly. Not cool blue gray, not paper white, but the color of the bubblegum sold at the Donners’ sweetshop. They dive again and again at Maysilee, who’s kneeling on the ground, trying to use a tarp as protection while she vehemently slices at them with her dagger. A couple of dead birds lie on the ground, but they have taken their toll. Blood blossoms from her cheek, her chest, the palm of her hand. Like Ampert’s squirrels, they have no interest in me. Programmed to target Maysilee in a very personal punishment. I hack away at the mutts with my ax, piling up a collection of rosy wings and legs like cattail stems, but they badly outnumber us. A bird swoops down at a sharp angle, driving its beak through her throat. As it withdraws, I decapitate it, slicing through the skinny neck. I realize Maysilee’s beyond recovery when the flock clears out. Falling to my knees beside her, I reach for her sound hand, which grasps mine like a vise. Her wounded one curls up and rests in her nest of necklaces, which lays in a pool of blood. Through the rasping of her breath, she attempts to speak, but the last mutt silenced her voice with its wicked beak. Mine seems silenced as well, as no words of comfort or hope or apology make it out. I just stare into those burning blue eyes, letting her know she’s not dying alone. She’s with family. She’s with me.”

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