Quotes About Enigma

Vince shook it playfully. "Maybe it'll help Anderson figure out who the victim is this time," he said. I opened my mouth to say that it didn't seem likely, that Anderson wouldn't figure it out if he had notarized statements from the killer and the victim, and then I closed my mouth and took a step back and didn't say anything at all.

They put it here because this guy is such a bugero.

when there was a third rap.

word, but it left neither of them any the wiser.

dark-haired girl?

deranged harlot look

All wisdom ends in paradox

She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds, we tried to pin her to a cork board like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew.

She was illusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to a corkboard like butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew.

the moon's incurious eye.

There was nothing explicit between them, nothing more than that slightly open door. And yet . . . what could be more alluring? In

Finn was nowhere to be found online.

Odd things made him love her.

To the stern student of affairs, Beirut is a phenomenon, beguiling perhaps, but quite, quite impossible.

The person is always happy who is in the presence of something they cannot know in full. A person as advanced far in the study of morals who has mastered the difference between pride and vanity.

Maybe I'm like acts of Congress or your favorite Chinese restaurant - you don't really want to know what's going on behind the door. I'm a real study in contrast, I expect, looking from without. But it adds up to what you get on stage.

I realised that today we are very much interested in reading about subjects that would have also interested people in the 1500s: ghosts, demons and things that go bump in the night.

Nobody knows anything about life and there is NO point in defining life.

I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.

Her eyes traveled over the row of Encyclopedia Thaumaturgica, and paused at the gap, one book wide, for volume Q. If Cook threw away volume Q, why is there a gap at all? Shouldn't P and R just be jammed up against each other?

The guardian flipped it over. "It's one of ours, yes . . . hmm. Says it's addressed to Eudaimonia—

Maps? There are no maps. I go by dark ways, unclean ways. If such a map existed, it would be beyond price. Nameless cults would battle in the low places of the earth for such a price. Dreamers would starve themselves in endless visions seeking its location. Such a map would have to be drawn on the skin of a black he-goat, in virgin's blood, with a brush made of dragon's eyelashes. The cartographer would go mad, and it would profane the hands that touched it.

In an ordinary portrait the woman comes forward to meet whoever looks at her, and tells her own story. But here, the real woman lurks a hundred leagues behind the equivocal gaze, entirely closed to herself, a plant rooted yet in the mysterious soil out of which it has come.

Mary Poppins's greatest precept: Never Explain.