Suzanne Collins
Suzanne Collins
Suzanne Marie Collinsis an American television writer and novelist, best known as the author of The New York Times best selling series The Underland Chronicles and The Hunger Games trilogy...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth11 August 1962
CountryUnited States of America
mother father sleep
In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I'm struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow; the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe.
hunger
Don't. Don't let's pretend when there's no one around.
letting-go looks fingers
I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says.
want happens
maybe it's that we are all so starved for something good to happen that we want to be a part of it.
hurt kids home
And it’s all my fault, Gale. Because of what I did in the arena. If I had just killed myself with those berries, none of this would’ve happened. Peeta could have come home and lived, and everyone else would have been safe, too.” “Safe to do what?” he says in a gentler tone. “Starve? Work like slaves? Send their kids to the reaping? You haven’t hurt people – you’ve given them an opportunity. They just have to be brave enough to take it.
book might humans
I guess there isn’t a rule book for what might be unacceptable to do to another human being.
thinking gale tick
Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots.
wonder breathe choke
It’s not wondering what I breathe in, but who, that threatens to choke me.
stay-with-me peeta mockingjay
Stay with me. Always.
moving light hands
I'm unaware that my feet are moving to the table until I'm inches from the holograph. My hand reaches in and cups a rapidly blinking green light. Someone joins me, his body tense. Finnick, of course. Because only a victor would see what I see so immediately. The arena. Laced with pods controlled by Gamemakers. Finnick's fingers caress a steady red glow over a doorway. "Ladies and gentlemen..." His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. "Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!
stupid thinking games
So Haymitch, what do you think of the games have one hundred percent more competitors than usual?” asks Caesar. Haymitch shrugs. “I don’t see that it makes that much difference. They’ll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same.
flower use brushes
I merely feel emptyness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers use to bloom.
mother flower passion
I don't have a talent, unless you count hunting illegally, which they don't. Or maybe singing, which I wouldn't do for the Capitol in a million years. My mother tried to interest me in a variety of suitable alternatives from a list Effie Trinket sent her. Cooking, flower arranging, playing the flute. None of them took, although Prim had a knack for all three. Finally Cinna stepped in and offered to help me develop my passion for designing clothes, which really required development since it was non-existent.
stylist underestimate never-underestimate
Never underestimate the power of a brillian stylist.