Book: The thorn birds. Page 8

Old age is the most cruel vengeance, which we unleashes a vengeful God. Why is he not at the same time ages and our souls.

Love to Maggie and natural for priest and always urge all to support spiritually fought with irresistible fear - suddenly become someone needs like air and someone will need you.

Because all the trees look the same only those who do not know how the heart can be noted and remembered in the vast forests with only one tree.

She too knew the son had no doubt: one word and he'll be here again, so, never she will not break that word. If the days of her debts and bitter, because she had been defeated, have to endure in silence.

- Why do you dislike her so? he asked.
- Because you love her, - was the answer.

And gradually the memory faded, as always, the memories fade, even the most dear, like our mind in addition to soul healing and heal wounds, no matter how big our desperate determination not to forget anything.

- I do not understand how you have such power over my non-existent heart?

Perfection in anything is boring! Me, I prefer a bit of imperfection.

Well, what can you do if a girl with such a temper. Here's a claim now that he was going to a Sydney brothel to learn the profession of a whore - and it probably will not discouraged. Oh, dear monster Justin, a mere plague of Egypt.

You're all the same, a kind of large hairy moths, struggling to rush to some stupid light that beat against the clear glass and it does not make out. And if you manage to get through the glass, so they jump right into the fire and burn, and end. But next to the shadow and coolness, the food, and love, and they can make new little moths. But unless you see it, don't you want it? Nothing of the sort! You pull back to fire and you fight, fight senseless until you burn!

Just try to love someone and he kills you. Just feel that without someone can not live, and he kills you.

Hardly though one man can judge, with a heavier - unconscious vexation, inseparable from anxiety and overexcitement, or a clear and definite desire, stubbornly seeking to quenching.

Each of us has something, even cry, even cry, and with this can not cope. We are as it is and there is nothing you can do about it. Like a bird in the old Celtic legend: catches chest on thorn a thorn, and with pierced heart comes a song and dies. She can't help it, this was her destiny. Let us know what fall know even before he made the first move, but consciousness is still nothing can stop, nothing can change. Everyone sings his song and I am sure that had the world never heard anything more beautiful. We create for herself the thorns and do not even think what it'll cost us. And then only remains to be patient and to assure ourselves that we suffer not in vain.

No one in the world, whether man or woman, does not see himself in the mirror for what it really is.