Quotes About Secrets

At such moments her own emotions elevated him till he was as a god, and, as he gazed at her and listened, he seemed gazing on the face of life and reading its deepest secrets. And then, becoming aware of the heights of exquisite sensibility he attained, he decided that this was love and that love was the greatest thing in the world.

Who are our basic enemies? This is a secret, unknown even to these basic enemies." — Xaviar Skolcamp, Over-Centennial Fellow of the Institute, indulgently, in response to a journalist's too-searching question

To the furthest reach of my memory, Rogol Domedonfors ruled the city. He knew lore of all ages, secrets of fire and light, gravity and countergravity, the knowledge of superphysic numeration, metathasm, corolopsis.

for the keeping of secrets from adults is oft the only power a child may hope to possess.

The keeping of secrets from adults is oft the only power a child may hope to possess.

Islands have their own rules, especially if they're blood-soaked.

It's not wise to trust a poet with one's secrets, but it's not wise to cross them, either

I was happier when I hadn't understood anything, when I hated you all because you kept your secrets. You don't have any. You have nothing, and there is nothing to be had.' 'What secrets did you think we had?' I no longer felt humiliated by my ignorance, because I'd touched on a knowledge that was too painful to bear.

I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus

If you reveal your secrets to the wind you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees. —KAHLIL GIBRAN

Was it that she did not trust happily ever after, that she was deliberately indifferent to the possibility? Or was happily ever after another one of time's secrets, waiting to be revealed on the journey?

about putting on the light in a dark room. He told me that when we keep secrets they grow inside us, and we can't see the truth of them anymore.

Nevertheless we cherish all books, especially the unread ones, for who knows what secrets they might yield one day? —p.397, as by Larry Zagorski, in his short story The City of the Sun

Men imagine that thought can be kept secret, but it cannot; it rapidly crystallises into habit, and habit solidifies into circumstance.

Men imagine that thought can be kept secret, but it cannot. It rapidly crystallizes into habit, and habit solidifies into circumstance.

He leaned up a little and watched her face. Her face would now be, forever, more mysterious and impenetrable than the face of any stranger. Strangers' faces hold no secrets because the imagination does not invest them with any. But the face of a lover is an unknown precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.

And he knew again that she was not saying everything she meant; in a kind of secret language she was telling him today something that he must remember and understand tomorrow. He watched her face, his heart swollen with love for her and with an anguish, not yet his own, that he did not understand and that frightened him.

Secrets hidden at the heart of midnight are simply waiting to be dragged to the light, as, on some unlucky high noon, they always are. But secrets shrouded in the glare of candor are bound to defeat even the most determined and agile inspector for the light is always changing and proves that the eye cannot be trusted.

I have been carried into precinct basements often enough, and I have seen and heard and endured the secrets of desperate white men and women, which they knew were safe with me, because even if I should speak, no one would believe me. And they would not believe me precisely because they would know that what I said was true.

She did not know why he so adored things that were so long dead; what sustenance they gave him, what secrets he hoped to wrest from them. But she understood, at least, that they did give him a kind of bitter nourishment, and that the secrets they held for him were a matter of his life and death. It frightened her because she felt that he was reaching for the moon and that he would, therefore, be dashed down against the rocks; but she did not say any of this.

Strangers' faces hold no secrets because the imagination does not invest them with any. But the face of a lover is an unknown precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment.

Only a man can see in the face of a woman the girl she was. It is a secret which can be revealed only to a particular man, and, then, only at his insistence. But men have no secrets, except from women, and never grow up in the way that women do. It is very much harder, and it takes much longer, for a man to grow up, and he could never do it at all without women. This is a mystery which can terrify and immobilize a woman, and it is always the key to her deepest distress.

Perhaps such secrets, the secrets of everyone, were only expressed when the person laboriously ragged them into the light of the world, imposed them on the world, and made them a part of the world's experience. Without this effort, the secret place was merely a dungeon in which the person perished; without this effort, indeed, the entire world would be an uninhabitable darkness; and she saw, with a dreadful reluctance why this effort was so rare.

But men have no secrets, except from women, and never grow up in the way that women do. It is very much harder, and it takes longer for a man to grow up, and he could never do it at all without women.