There's a story...a legend...about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree...and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings...more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing... it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But as it dies... it rises above its own agony... to out -sing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life...for just one song...but the whole world stills to listen. And God in his heaven smiles.
(It means) The best is bought only at the cost of great pain.
You still think love can save us? It's more killing than hate. Hate is so clean, so simple. Like being in the ring. With hate, you just keep hitting. You hit until they stop hitting back. With love...they never stop.
he is quite guilty of the sin of pride. You see, it is that Hippolytus holds himself...above human love. He's cold. He will not even admit that human passion exists. That is the cruelty...because this is his fate. He cannot choose to love... No decisions to make, no conscience, no agony of free will...nothing. All fated from the first.
there are no ambitions noble enough to justify breaking someone's heart.
Driven to the thorn , with no knowledge of the dying to come. When we press the thorn to our breast...we know...we understand...and still we do it.
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