Kovėsi jis geriau negu kada nors gyvenime, regis, buvo pasiryžęs sutelkti visą didžiulę jį lydinčią šlovę į šią vienintelę dieną. Užuot pasidavęs įpr… - Colleen McCullough

Twelve thousand miles of it, to the other side of the world. And whether they came home again or not, they would belong neither here, nor there, for they would have lived on two continents and sampled two different ways of life.

But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.

Each of us has something within us which won't be denied, even if it makes us scream aloud to die. We are what we are, that's all. Like the old Celtic legend of the bird with the thorn in its breast, singing its heart out and dying. Because it has to, its self-knowledge can't affect or change the outcome, can it? Everyone singing his own little song, convinced it's the most wonderful song the world has ever heard. Don't you see? We create our own thorns, and never stop to count the cost. All we can do is suffer the pain, and tell ourselves it was well worth it.