“You must be kidding." She says, "Having the power of life and death isn't enough. Youmust wonder what other poems are in that book."Hitting me as fast as a hiccup, me resting my weight on my good foot, just staring at her, I say no.She says, "Maybe you can live forever."And I say no.And she says, "Maybe you can make anyone love you."No.And she says, "Maybe you can turn straw into gold."And I say no and turn on my heel."Maybe you could bring about world peace," she says.”

“You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized she didn't mean me, she meant you!" bursts out Peeta."Oh, she meant you," I say with a wave of dismissal."She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' She is," says Peeta.That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that about me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain in Peeta's eyes and know he isn't lying.Suddenly I'm behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I sound eleven years old when I speak. "But only because someone helped me.”

“Eliza—” I said, “so many of the books I’ve read to you said love was the most important thing of all. Maybe I should tell you that I love you now.” “Go ahead,” she said. “I love you, Eliza,” I said. She thought about it. “No,” she said at last, “I don’t like it.” “Why not?” I said. ”It’s as though you were pointing a gun at my head,” she said. “It’s just a way of getting somebody to say something they probably don’t mean. What else can I say, or anybody say, but, ‘I love you, too’?”

“I pu my finger to her lips. "You have to hush a minute so that I can tell you something.""What?" she says, bites my finger.I look at her. "I love you."She gets quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into her, softens her. "Well that works out," she finally says, her voice deeper and breathless, her eyes moist, "because I love you too." She turns, leans against my arm, and settles into me.”

“The cops say that thing:'anything you say will be used against you.' Self-incrimination. I looked it up. Three-point vocab word. So why does everyone make such a hairy deal about me not talking? Maybe I don't want to incriminate myself. Maybe I don't like the sound of my voice. Maybe I don't have anything to say.”

“My music will go on forever. Maybe it's a fool say that, but when me know facts me can say facts. My music will go on forever.”