Haymitch Abernathy Quotes

I know that every year for my birthday, I will get a new pair of tributes, one girl and one boy, to mentor to their deaths. Another sunrise on the reaping.

But she was smarter than me, or luckier. She's the one who finally kept that sun from rising.

Several sets of arms would embrace me. But in the end, the only person I truly want to comfort me is Haymitch, because he loves Peeta, too. I reach out for him and say something like his name and he's there, holding me and patting my back. "It's okay. It'll be okay, sweetheart." He sits me on a length of broken marble pillar and keeps an arm around me while I sob.

I know one thing, though: The Capitol can never take Lenore Dove from me again. They never really did in the first place. Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping, and she is the most precious thing I’ve ever known. When I tell her that, she always says, “I love you like all-fire.” And I reply, “I love you like all-fire, too.

Don't let them paint their posters with your blood. Not if you can help it.

I love you like all-fire, too. You and no one else. Just like my geese, I mate for life. And then some. Forever.

Yeah, we wouldn't want to lose our little Mockingjay when she's finally begun to sing.

Newcomers land on top.

You call that a kiss?

If you'd been taken by the Capital and hijacked and then tried to kill Peeta, is this the way he would be treating you?

Make sure they remember you.

But in school I remember hearing that for the second Quarter Quell, the Capitol demanded that twice the number of tributes be provided for the arena. The teachers didn't go into much more detail, which is surprising, because that was the year District 12's very own Haymitch Abernathy won the crown.

No one but me will paint this poster.

You never get off this train.

I imagine my heart busted into a dozen glassy red pieces, their hard, jagged edges stabbing into my flesh at every beat

And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies. -Haymitch Abernathy

I think he believes you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar," I respond. Snow snorts. "Ah, the homey aphorisms of District Twelve are alive and well.

The arena's just a machine really. A killing machine. It's possible to outsmart it.

It'd be like we did it together. Painted a poster that no one could ignore.

But how will she ever know that was only a teaspoon of trouble in my river of wrong?

This room is Lenore Dove's dream come true. A world of words to wrap herself up in. Each book's as precious as a person, she says, as it preserves someone's thoughts and feelings long after they're gone.

A dead mockingjay chick, eyes still bright, feathers blue-black in the sunlight, clawed feet empty, on a bed of moss. Lenore Dove stroked its plumage with her fingertip. "Poor baby . . . poor little bird . . . who will sing your songs now?

I run my finger over the fine metalwork of the feathered neck. "I wouldn't want to ruin it." "You won't. That's what it's made for." She touches the snake's head, then the bird's, in turn. "It takes a lot to break these two. They're survivors.

I am completely in Snow's power and his to manipulate. His puppet. His pawn. His plaything. It is his poster I am painting.

How my rescue was arranged from the beginning? And finally, how our mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, betrayed us both for a cause he pretended to have no interest in?

What about your mentor, Haymitch Abernathy?

She’s not an easy person; she’s like me, Peeta always says. But she’s smarter than me, or luckier. She’s the one who finally kept that sun from rising. -Haymitch Abernathy on Katniss Everdeen

Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He’s drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off. The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket. Bright

But in school I remember hearing that for the second Quarter Quell, the Capitol demanded that twice the number of tributes be provided for the arena. The teachers didn’t go into much more detail, which is surprising, because that was the year District 12’s very own Haymitch Abernathy won the crown.

He is just a man, as human as the rest of us.

You can’t count on things happening tomorrow just because they happened in the past. It’s faulty logic.

Mamaw used to say you never really knew who'd swim in a flood.

The shards of my heart shift and drive into my lungs, making breathing an agony.

No one depends on Lenore Dove for their livelihood. She can run as wild as the wind.

But to make things even worse, this is the year of the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games, and that means it’s also a Quarter Quell. They occur every twenty-five years, marking the anniversary of the districts’ defeat with over-the-top celebrations and, for extra fun, some miserable twist for the tributes. I’ve never been alive for one, of course. But in school I remember hearing that for the second Quarter Quell, the Capitol demanded that twice the number of tributes be provided for the arena. The teachers didn’t go into much more detail, which is surprising, because that was the year District 12’s very own Haymitch Abernathy won the crown.

We cross the room, but in the doorway, Haymitch's voice stops us. "Katniss, when you're in the arena," he begins. Then he pauses. He's scowling in a way that suggests I've already disappointed him. "What?" I ask defensively. "You just remember who the enemy is," Haymitch tells me. "That's all. Now go on. Get out of here.

Finally Haymitch breaks the silence. "So we're all heading off into the great unknown, are we?" he asks me. "No," I say. "Not any more." "Worked through the flaws in that plan, did you, sweetheart?" he asks. "Any new ideas?" "I want to start an uprising," I say. Haymitch just laughs. It's not even a mean laugh, which is more troubling. It shows he can't even take me seriously. "Well, I want a drink. You let me know how that works out for you, though," he says.

Technically, I am unarmed. But no one should ever underestimate the harm that fingernails can do, especially if the target is unprepared. I lunge across the table and rake mine down Haymitch's face, causing blood to flow and damage to one eye. Then we are both screaming terrible, terrible things at each other, and Finnick is trying to drag me out, and I know it's all Haymitch can do not to rip me apart, but I'm the mockingjay. I'm the mockingjay and it's too hard keeping me alive as it is.

Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering something unintelligible, staggers onto the stage, and falls into the third chair. He’s drunk. Very. The crowd responds with its token applause, but he’s confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

Haymitch Abernathy and the alcohol addiction that is his response to the sustained emotional trauma of having to mentor two new tributes each year who will die in the arena

Consider Haymitch Abernathy, staggering through life in a nearly constant alcoholic fog. His inebriation is so incapacitating that it has probably compromised his ability to be an effective mentor to District 12’s tributes on many occasions. In fact, Katniss suspects that Haymitch’s alcoholism may have cost some of her predecessors their lives. 'No wonder the District 12 tributes never stand a chance,' she reflects while watching Haymitch drink himself into a stupor on the train to the Capitol. 'It isn’t just that we’ve been underfed and lack training. Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors and he’s a big part of the reason why.' But as justified as Katniss’s anger at Haymitch may be, we know that he didn’t choose to be this drunken wreck of a man. His character was shaped by a cruel twist of fate: his name being drawn in the 50th Hunger Games when he was still a boy. Morally, he never stood a chance.

Even in my head, my language becomes dull and flat, stripped of the color and music of yesterday.

Snow's gift has reminded us of our frailty and the fuitility of opposing him.

The bell rings and Caesar gives me a slap on the back. “This one’s a real rascal, ladies and gentlemen! Haymitch Abernathy from District Twelve! May the odds be EVER in his favor!

Like in one of your songs, my ghost will hunt down your ghost and never give it a moment’s rest.” “Promise?” She sounds a little more hopeful. “Because if I could count on that, I think I could bear it. But what I can’t bear is . . . what if we’re never together again?” “We will be together always,” I say with conviction. “I don’t know how, and I don’t know where, I don’t know anything, but I feel that in my heart. You and me, we will find each other, as many times as it takes.” “You think?” “I do. But not if you do something stupid like getting yourself killed on purpose. I feel like that could throw the whole thing out of whack. You stay alive, play your songs, love your people, live the best life you can. And I’ll be there in the Meadow waiting for you. It’s a promise. Okay?” “Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll try. That’s my promise back.

I try to negotiate a few extra minutes floating in the tub so I can work out how I might come across as a rascal, but all I can think about is stealing nuts.

I love you like all-fire

If something attacked me right now, I’d let it take me. I know, I know, I just made a deathbed promise to Maysilee to carry on the fight, but I can’t seem to rally. I pat her necklace against my pants to wipe off the blood — these black clothes just never stop giving — and hook the fancy clasp behind my neck to hang there with its friends. I’ve got my own jewelry collection now, what with District 9’s sunflower, Wyatt’s scrip coin, and Lenore Dove’s warring songbird and snake. Why, I’m almost as decorated as Miss Donner herself.

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.

We will be together always,' I say with conviction. 'I don't know how, and I don't know where, I don't know anything, but I feel that in my heart. You and me, we will find each other, as many times as it takes.

Good-bye, Maysilee Donner, who I loathed, then grudgingly respected, then loved. Not as a sweetheart or even a friend. A sister, I'd said. But what is that exactly? I think about our journey - everything from sniping with her in those early days after the reaping to battling those pink birds. I guess that's my answer. A sister is someone you fight with and fight for. Tooth and nail.

I'm Haymitch Abernathy from District Twelve. I shouldn't be here. I was reaped illegally, but no one cares. My neighbor, Louella McCoy, was the only person here I gave a hang about, but you killed her and brought in a body double. So, that kind of frees me up to win these Games.