The Thorn Birds

by Colleen McCullough

“Perfection in anything,” she said, “is unbearably dull. Myself, I prefer a touch of imperfection.”

“Do I not? Time will tell, Ralph, and only time. I’m old; I have nothing but time left to me.” “And what do you think I have?” he asked. “Time, Mary, nothing but time. Time, and dust, and flies.”

“It’s not worth getting upset about, Mrs. Dominic. Down in the city they don’t know how the other half lives, and they can afford the luxury of doting on their animals as if they were children. Out here it’s different. You’ll never see man, woman or child in need of help go ignored out here, yet in the city those same people who dote on their pets will completely ignore a cry of help from a human being.” Fee looked up. “He’s right, Mrs. Dominic,” she said. “We all have contempt for whatever there’s too many of. Out here it’s sheep, but in the city it’s people.”

Old Mickey O’Brien came out from Gilly to play the fiddle, and there was always someone on hand to man the piano accordion or the button accordion, taking turns to spell each other as Mickey’s accompanists while the old violinist sat on a barrel or a wool bale for hours playing without a rest, his pendulous lower lip drooling because he had no patience with swallowing; it interfered with his tempo.

She came out of her reverie to find him watching her watch him, which was like being stripped naked in front of a crowd armed with stones.