I think I'm grateful. :)

I just need to work harder in the future, that's all.

The single most defining characteristic of good books seems to be the presence of, firstly, a striking introduction to the scene, and an enigmatic flourish at its end.

Of course, this is common knowledge to those who read extensively, and to those who study the creation of literature, but it's not often when it is seen in actuality. I too, have studied the creation of texts, through a year of terribly misguided, and essentially egotistical scribbling in high school, and have been told, and repeated to myself that same truth(?), idea(?), adage(?). (None of these words seem to fit, but you understand, don't you, reader?)

Perhaps it's my bias towards canonical tales which draws me to the introduction to The Thorn Birds - Colleen McCullough, but it drew me in, attracted me, as only a few other introductions have done. It was a retelling of the Celtic legend of the thorn bird, which, well, I will let McCullough tell you in her own words.

There is a legend about a bird which sings but once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the next 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.

Beautiful, is it not? Because I have heard this story in slightly altered wording before beginning this book, I am unsure as to whether this is the way the story is told  in the original writing of this story, but the gist remains.

If you asked me to tell you what this story was about, I'm not sure I could tell you, I'm not sure I fully understand it myself. What I did gather, was that this story was about retribution, or perhaps, in more modern terms, karmic exchange. It talks about love, family, the Church, the sanctity of vows, strength, the failings of human nature, the cheating of destiny, and consequently, destiny claiming its own. The book revolves around a family, forming their lives around the mistakes made by the family, all seeking to correct the wrongs caused by each other, and the irony which pervades in the futility of their efforts, as like the thorn birds, they pierce themselves, each and every one on the same thorns from which they had sworn to rescue their loved ones.

McCullough's writing satisfied, in its pragmatism, much like the family, used to inflicting little cruelties in search of survival, but also in its depth of emotion and, at risk of sounding cliché, rich description. Poetry is contrasted with reality, seeming at times, completely unsuited, but at other moments, paired together, like the characters, painfully, but seemingly, rightly.

The storyline is chiefly concerned with retribution, and predetermination. What has happened before, will happen again. What has been stolen, will be taken back. These are not restricted to only events over the years, starting from 1915 to 1969, a life span of fifty-four years, but also the nature of the relationships created, and changed throughout this time. Perhaps what has once been always will be, through the pull of blood flowing in our veins, the teachings of our parents, whether or not they intended it or even the natural predisposition of people to certain callings, but the cycle is not all gloom, though it ends in death, one must not forget the song accompanying the pain of the thorn.

Perhaps we, like the thorn bird are unable to choose otherwise. Or, perhaps, we are, and in our eagerness to really live, seal our own doom.

The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorn in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.

Exam results are out. I'm disappointed in myself.

I thought I had tried this time, but in retrospect, I should have realised determination doesn't produce results if it's not backed up by a solid plan and considerable effort. I was mediocre, and didn't push myself.

That needs to change. I need to make plans.

I need to learn how to study.

I don't want to be disappointed again.