Sunrise On The Reaping Quotes

They will not use my tears for their entertainment.

I love you like all-fire.

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.

The moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us.

And that’s part of our trouble. Thinking things are inevitable. Not believing change is possible.

She’s not an easy person; she’s like me, Peeta always says. But she was smarter than me, or luckier.

You were capable of imagining a different future. And maybe it won’t be realized today, maybe not in our lifetime. Maybe it will take generations. We’re all part of a continuum. Does that make it pointless?

And while Lenore Dove will forever be my true love, Louella is my one and only sweetheart.

Fire is catching, she’d say, but if this one burns down the arena, I say good riddance.

The snow may fall, but the sun also rises.

So don’t feed the nightmares. Don’t let yourself panic. Don’t give the Capitol that. They’ve taken enough already.

In fifty years, we’ve only had one victor, and that was a long time ago. A girl who no one seems to know anything about.

All propaganda is lies, even when one is telling the truth. I don’t think this matters so long as one knows what one is doing, and why.” — George Orwell

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

. Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping.

I will pay for it with my death and with the broken hearts and lives of everyone who loves me.

A cannon fires. Somewhere, Beetee’s heart breaks into fragments so small it can never be repaired.

I run for Louella, but I run for Woodbine, too, because he’ll never run again.

Dove color: Warm gray with a slight purplish or pinkish tint. Her color. Her bird. Her name.

I would welcome death, if it wasn’t for my promise to Lenore Dove that I would somehow keep the sun from rising on the reaping.

That the sun will not rise tomorrow is no less intelligible a proposition, and implies no more contradiction, than the affirmation, that it will rise.” — David Hume

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 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.

Like all the Covey, music in her blood. But not like them, too. Less interested in pretty melodies, more in dangerous words. The kind that lead to rebel acts. The kind that got her arrested twice.

I don't want to beg. Or plead for my life. I want to go out with my head up.

They will not use our tears for their entertainment.

I dismount the chariot and lay Louella down, taking a step back so Snow can’t pretend he doesn’t see her broken little bird body. Then I gesture to him and begin to applaud, giving credit where credit is due.

I’m entirely the Capitol’s plaything. They will use me for their entertainment and then kill me, and the truth will have no say in it.

I guess Snow lands on top,” I say under the applause. Utterly guilty on all possible counts, I await his sentence. He merely smiles and says, “Enjoy your homecoming.

Because the reaping’s going to happen no matter what I believe. Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.

I guess that’s my answer. A sister is someone you fight with and fight for. Tooth and nail.

Sometimes she cries because things are so beautiful and we keep messing them up. Because the world doesn’t have to be so terrifying. That’s on people, not the world.

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.

Happy birthday, Haymitch!

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

It’s okay to cry around Mags.

With that, she condemns me to life.

A truth that’s told with bad intent, Beats all the lies you can invent.” — William Blake

Listen, Louella, if you let them treat you like an animal, they will. So don’t let them.

No way to control the outcome of the reaping or what follows it. So don’t feed the nightmares. Don’t let yourself panic. Don’t give the Capitol that. They’ve taken enough already.

She wasn’t one of Burdock’s Everdeen cousins, but I knew he had some distant ones on his ma’s side.

Hey, Hay,” she whispers. “Wasn’t fair how they took you.” For the first time, I consider this. Fair? It sure wasn’t. My reaping was irregular, maybe even illegal.

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

Well, there’s no proof that will happen. You can’t count on things happening tomorrow just because they happened in the past. It’s faulty logic.

they’re just two girls on a mission to beautify the world.

It’s Mags, a victor from District 4. She looks at me sadly, knowingly, and then opens up her arms and says, “I’m so sorry about Louella, Haymitch.

Be a rascal. A charming, naughty rascal.

Like she’s delightful to look at, swishes around in bright colors, and sings like a mockingjay. You love her. And oh, how she seems to love you. Except sometimes you wonder, because her plans don’t include you at all.

Soft footfalls approach and a small young woman appears. I recognize her immediately. The black-haired girl from District 3 who won last year’s Hunger Games. “Hello, I’m Wiress. One of your mentors.

We’re from District Twelve. The crummiest stinkhole in Panem,” says Maysilee. “We’re wild like our chariot horses. I slugged our escort and Haymitch called out President Snow. Nobody pushes us around.

there are eyes everywhere. And eyes generally come with a pair of ears.

Newcomers land on top.

Shrew, calculator, lunatic, rascal.

These Games will have no victor.

but the walls of a person’s heart are not impregnable, not if they have ever known love.

You are on a high horse, mister. And someday someone will knock you off it straight into your grave.

When Lenore Dove comes to me now, she’s not angry or dying, so I think she’s forgiven me. She’s grown older with me, her face etched with fine lines, her hair touched with gray. Like she’s been living her life beside me as the years passed, instead of lying in her grave. Still so rare and radiant. I fulfilled my promise about the reaping, or at least lent a hand, but she says I can’t come to her yet. I have to look after my family.

She doesn’t belong to them,” snaps Maysilee. “Don’t just hand her over. Make them fight for her. Run!” So I do. And I’m a fast runner. The only kid who can beat me in footraces at school is Woodbine Chance. Well, he used to anyway. I run for Louella, but I run for Woodbine, too, because he’ll never run again.

My dreams are nothing I want to remember, full of people I must never forget. I visit death after death. It's a relief to be woken up.

This is better, I tell myself. Better than dying in the arena. Better than weasels and starvation and swords. I’m embracing that when I realize the blood isn’t mine. That fate isn’t mine. And the tribute who’s escaped the arena is Louella.

I know but . . . what I’m thinking . . . you and me . . . You remember what Ampert said when you made his token?” There’s a long pause before she says, “Sure. I’ll be your sister.” Our hands reach out at the same time, clasp, and then release. “’Night, Sis.” I roll over and let sleep take me.

But I can’t say I have no future, because 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.

reaping’s going to happen no matter what I believe. Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.

Louella’s death changed me. Maybe I’ll end up being victor material after all.

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

I think he’s missed a lot of trouble down here on earth, because he’s always studying the sky.

I have no idea how I just did that.

They’re punishing him by making him mentor Ampert.” “That’s a special kind of vicious. Would you want your family to be here?” “I can’t think of anything worse.

but you should know that, despite appearances, a desire for freedom is not limited to the districts.

And maybe it won't be realized today, maybe not in our lifetime. Maybe it will take generations. We're all part of a continuum. Does that make it pointless?

Every bite of clean food is priceless.

Reading in general isn’t a popular pastime in the Capitol. It’s a shame. Everything you need to know about people is right here in this room.

Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping, and she is the most precious thing I’ve ever known.

He knows Lenore Dove is Covey; only they name their children this way. First name from a ballad, second a color.

No one but me will paint this poster.

We do want you. You shook up the Capitol, both figuratively and literally, with that earthquake. You were capable of imagining a different future. And maybe it won’t be realized today, maybe not in our lifetime. Maybe it will take generations. We’re all part of a continuum. Does that make it pointless?

Given his own challenges, you’d think Clerk Carmine would be a champion of our love — I’m certainly supportive of his — but I guess he thinks Lenore Dove could do better.

For the first time, I understand that when they show the reaping live, it isn’t really live. There must be a five-minute hold on the broadcast in case something like this happens.

Repeatedly reminding me of President Snow’s crystal-clear message to me on my homecoming. That I will never get to love anyone ever again. Nevermore.

you’re our stars. You carry it out. But only if we control the narrative. Don’t let us.

One of us has to be the worst victor in history. Tear up their scripts, tear down their celebrations, set fire to the Victor's Village. Refuse to play their game.

She isn’t crying, so Plutarch won’t get his tearful good-bye. Not from her and not from me. They will not use our tears for their entertainment.

A sister is someone you fight with and fight for.

Public opinion is driven by emotion. People have an emotional response to something, then they come up with an argument for why it logically makes sense.

Because the world doesn’t have to be so terrifying. That’s on people, not the world.

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

I left a simple district piglet and returned as the murderous beast that they always suspected lay in wait.

She used to say, if I was afraid, ‘It’s okay, Maysilee, nothing they can take from you was ever worth keeping.

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.

Each book's as precious as a person, she says, as it preserves someone's thoughts and feelings long after they're gone.

You shook up the Capitol, both figuratively and literally, with that earthquake. You were capable of imagining a different future. And maybe it won't be realized today, maybe not in our lifetime. Maybe it will take generations. We're all part of a continuum. Does that make it pointless?

In fifty years, we’ve only had one victor, and that was a long time ago. A girl who no one seems to know anything about. Back then, barely anyone in 12 had a television, so the Games were mostly hearsay. I’ve never seen her in the clips of the old shows, but then those early efforts are rarely featured, as they are said to be badly filmed and lacking in spectacle. My parents weren’t born yet, and even Mamaw couldn’t tell me much about the girl. I brought our victor up with Lenore Dove a few times, but she never wanted to discuss her.

We lost, and in punishment every July 4th, each of the districts routinely has to send two tributes, one girl and one boy between the ages of twelve and eighteen, to fight to the death in an arena. The last kid standing gets crowned as the victor.

The place is deserted except for my classmate Asterid March, who’s arranging tiny bottles on a shelf behind the counter. A long blond braid falls down her back, but the damp heat has brought out tendrils of hair that frame her perfect face. Asterid’s the town beauty and rich by District 12 standards. I used to hold that against her, but she showed up one night in the Seam, alone, to treat a neighbor woman who’d been whipped for back-talking a Peacekeeper. She brought some ointment she’d concocted herself, then slipped away, never mentioning payment. Since then, she’s who people turn to for help when a loved one goes under the lash. I guess Asterid has more substance than her pack of snooty town friends suggests. Besides, Burdock’s nuts about her, so I try to be nice even though he’s got about as much chance with her as a mockingjay with a swan. Town girls don’t marry Seam boys, not unless something really goes haywire.

That’s when I see Lenore Dove. She’s up on a ridge, her red dress plastered to her body, one hand clutching the bag of gumdrops. As the train passes, she tilts her head back and wails her loss and rage into the wind. And even though it guts me, even though I smash my fists into the glass until they bruise, I’m grateful for her final gift. That she’s denied Plutarch the chance to broadcast our farewell. The moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us.

Well, I’m despicable on many levels, but in this I’m on your side.

Maybe not. But I try to. Because the reaping’s going to happen no matter what I believe. Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.

Sometimes she cries because things are so beautiful and we keep messing them up. Because the world doesn't have to be so terrifying. That's on people, not the world.

That’s when she revealed that he’d been together some thirty years with the fellow in town who replaces busted windows. They have to keep it quiet because loving differently can get you harassed by the Peacekeepers, fired from jobs, arrested even. Given his own challenges, you’d think Clerk Carmine would be a champion of our love — I’m certainly supportive of his

NO PEACE, NO PROSPERITY! NO HUNGER GAMES, NO PEACE! It’s the same campaign they used on our square back in District 12, but with slogans geared to the Capitol residents. Seems the Capitol has to convince its own citizens, too.