You should see the murderous stares I get on the street. Though I think that has less to do with seeing a man carrying a purse and more to do with paisley. Paisley makes everyone cranky.
I really hope he shapes up, you know? He’s got a good head on his shoulders when he’s not trying to give himself alcohol poisoning.
Genius or jock, it didn't seem to matter. Boys were born with a gene that kept girls, no matter how smart they might be, from understanding them.
Any curly-haired boy can write windswept ballads. You have to crush people's heads. That's the only way to make those fuckers listen.
Love may not be enough to wake a child in the morning, dress him, and get him to school, then to feed him at night, bathe him, and put him to bed. Still, can any of us imagine a childhood without it?
When things go wrong, you'll find they usually go on getting worse for some time; but when things once start going right they often go on getting better and better.
But one of the worst results of being a slave and being forced to do things is that when there is no one to force you any more you find you have almost lost the power of forcing yourself.
You’re an assignment, not an assignation. Soon as I get your pretty boy ass through the Wilderness and deliver you to the Outpost, you’re no more than a stain to spit-shine off my boots.
Any man who has ever led an army, an expedition, or a group of Boy Scouts has sadism in his bones.
To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed.
I was a lonely boy. I spent all my time reading books and watching the world. [some] tried to draw me out at first, but their hearts weren't in it. And after all, they had enough troubles of their own.
I began to think I quite liked her really. It's always so nice to meet someone more badly behaved than oneself.
Hunger has always been more or less at my elbow when I played, but now I began to wake up at night to find hunger standing at my bedside, staring at my gauntly.
School is one long illness with symptoms that switch every five minutes so you think it's getting better or worse. But really it's the same thing for years and years.
Careful with the accusations of insanity, oh my lady whose home is a tower with windows of brick, all for the sake of some skinny-ankled, laugh-prone boy of a khan.
After years of having a dog, you know him. You know the meaning of his snuffs and grunts and barks. Every twitch of the ears is a question or statement, every wag of the tail is an exclamation.
Eventually he understood that he was crying for himself. He was ashamed of the man whom he had become, mourning the man whom he had expected to be when he'd been a boy.
Non est ad astra mollis e terris via. That's my philosophy. Its a quote from the past. "There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.
Why? is the boy's motto, why does, why is, why not? Food, weather, time, fires, sea and season, clothes and cars and people; it's all grist to the mill of why.
The world expected girls to pluck and primp and put on heels. Meanwhile, boys dressed in rumpled T-shirts and baggy pants and misplace their combs, and yet you were suppose to fall at their feet? Unacceptable.
She looked at the boy. He knew her weakness for storytelling. And it was, after all, only a story. Still, she wished he had chosen a happier one.
