Quotes About Secrets

There are horrors beyond life's edge that we do not suspect, and once in a while man's evil prying calls them just within our range.

More wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of the ocean. Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent. All my days I have watched it and listened to it, and I know it well. At first it told to me only the plain little tales of calm beaches and near ports, but with the years it grew more friendly and spoke of other things; of things more strange and more distant in space and time.

As a rule, never work for friends. Sooner or later they resent you because you know so much about them. Or else you'll no longer like them, because you do.)

Conversation has a kind of charm about it, an insuating and insidious something that elicits secrets from us just like love or liquor.

When I first met Pierce Maverick, taking in his dark hair and sultry brown eyes, I never imagined he'd be the catalyst to awaken the beast; the sexual animal within me. There were rumors, so many rumors, about what happened between us in Las Vegas. The tape, the accessories, the third parties – the Sunday "arrangement". Speculations even fueled

N]ature listens not to the plaints of man, it is callous to his sorrows. Hence man turns away from Nature, … He turns within, that here … he may find audience for his griefs. Here he utters his oppressive secrets; … he gives vent to stifled sighs.

Bravely spoken, mother! cried her son: these sentiments are worthy of a governor. And if it chance that any of the maids should break her neck; the cook get tipsy, or set the chimney on fire; the butler, for joy, let all the malmsey run upon the floor, or down his throat, yon shall not hear a word of such small tricks. If, indeed, an earthquake were to overset the house! that, my dear mother, could not be kept secret.

Don't only practice your art, but force your way into it's secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine.

Don't only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine.

There are skeletons in everyone's closet, things no one ever wants the world to discover.

You will ask me, after this, why, I didn't tell you this before. It is because I know how powerful a story can be. It can change the course of history. It can save a life. But it can also be a sinkhole, a quicksand in which you become stuck, unable to write yourself free.

I just completed The Tenth Circle. It is an excellent mystery story surrounding a family with modern day issues.

They sat in the companionable awkwardness caused by knowing extremely private things about each other that had never been directly confided.

Fiction comes in all shapes and sizes. Secrets, lies, stories. We all tell them. Sometimes, because we hope to entertain. Sometimes, because we need to distract. And sometimes, because we have to.

Why didn't you tell me? Delia says, stung. Why don't any of us tell you anything? I respond. We love you.

Dark honey from the second harvest. It's made late in the season after the nectar drought at the end of July when the bees turn to goldenrod and sunflowers instead. It's deeper and richer, it tastes like secrets.

Lucy} knew other things too, more important non-school things. She knew that when grown-ups lowered their voices it meant you had to listen harder.

But it feels like we are sitting on a tight bench of a bus with a stranger between us, one that neither of us is willing to admit to or mention, and so we find ourselves talking around him and through him and sneaking glances when the other one isn't looking. How am I supposed to think about Anna Fitzgerald when I'm wondering whether Julia has ever woken up in someone's arms and for just a moment, before the sleep cleared from her mind, thought maybe it was me?

It is pitch dark and raining when I leave Josef's house, shaking beneath the responsibility of his confessions. What I want

tape showing the "eight silent ways." Some of the actors must have been brain-wipes, since they were actually killed.

We ought not to ask why the human mind troubles to fathom the secrets of the universe. The diversity of the phenomena of nature is so great, and the treasures hidden in the skies so rich, precisely in order that the human mind shall never be lacking in fresh nourishment.

And I cherish more than anything else the Analogies, my most trustworthy masters. They know all the secrets of Nature, and they ought to be least neglected in Geometry.

We are only as sick as our secrets. The

Oh, by the way, the plot: it almost slipped my mind. Charlie French bought my mother's pictures cheap and sold them dear to Binkie Behrens, then bought them cheap from Binkie and sold them on to Max Molyneaux. Something like that. Does it matter? Dark deeds, dark deeds. Enough.