The Thorn Birds [antikvár]

Avon Books is proud to publish the history-making bestseller THE THORN DIRDS Spanning three generations and an infinite range of human emotions, THE THORN DIRDS the sfory of a singular family, the Cleorys, who leave New Zealand to live on a vast Australian sheep sfotloa where their triumphs and tragedies ore interwoven with the wonder and terror of a land ravaged by cycles of drought, fire, and torrential flood. But most of oil, it is the story of Meggie, who falls madly in love with a man she con never marry, and of Ralph, a truly beautiful man, whose ambition takes him from Outback parish priest to the inner circles of the Vatican—but whose love for Meggie Cleory will lead to a passion he cannot control. The novel begins in 1915 and ends more than half a century later, when the only survivor of the third generation, Justine, a brilliant London actress, sets a course of life and love halfway around the world from her roots. (Kindly furn page ) There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to out-carol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price. But the whole world stills to listen, and God in His heaven smiles. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain,.,. Or so says the legend. On December 8th, 1915, Meggie Cleary had her fourtli birthday. After the breakfast dishes were put away her mother silently thrust a brown paper parcel into her arms and ordered her outside. So Meggie squatted down behind the gorse bush next to the front gate and tugged impatiently. Her fingers were clumsy, the wrapping heavy; it smelled faintly of the Wahine general store, which told her that whatever lay inside the parcel had miraculously been bought, not homemade or donated. Something fine and mistily gold began to poke through a comer; she attacked the paper faster, peeling it away in long, ragged strips. "Agnes! Oh, Agnes!" she said lovingly, blinking at the doll lying there in a tattered nest. A miracle indeed. Only once in her life had Meggie been into Wahine; all the way back in May, because she had been a very good girl. So perched in the buggy beside her mother, on her best behavior, she had been too excited to see or remember much. Except for Agnes, the beautiful doll sitting on the store counter, dressed in a crinoline of pink satin with cream lace frills all over it. Right then and there in her mind she had christened it Agnes, the only name she knew elegant enough for such a peerless creature. Yet over the en-