Quotes About Mystery

The rodent of ecstasy sings by my bedside.

private and primitive and a bit on the funky and frightening

What is the 'direction' of the Earth in its journey; where are the atoms 'going' when they spin?

out of sight of hair smoke and lip ash and bowel cinders

Everyone knows that ghosts don't piss!

that aspect of being that once was attuned to wonder.

When we have found all the mysteries and lost all the meaning, we will be alone, on an empty shore.

Septimus. When we have found all the mysteries and lost all the meaning, we will be all alone, on an empty shore. Thomasina. Then we will dance. Is this a waltz?

I will take his secret to the grave, telling people I meet on the way.

Poetical feelings are a peril to scholarship. There are always poetical people ready to protest that a corrupt line is exquisite. Exquisite to whom? The Romans were foreigners writing for foreigners two millenniums ago; and for people whose gods we find quaint, whose savagery we abominate, whose private habits we don't like to talk about, but whose idea of what is exquisite is, we flatter ourselves, mysteriously identical to ours.

the natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster. strangely enough it all works out in the end... it's a mystery.

Traitors hoist by their own petard?--or victims of the gods?--we shall never know!

getting away with murder must be quite easy provided that one's motive is sufficiently inscrutable.

SEPTIMUS: When we have found all the mysteries and lost all the meaning, we will be alone, on an empty shore. THOMASINA: Then we will dance. Is this a waltz?

HENSLOWE: Mr. Fennyman, let me explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster. Believe me, to be closed by the plague is a bagatelle in the ups and downs of owning a theatre. FENNYMAN: So what do we do? HENSLOWE: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well. FENNYMAN: How? HENSLOWE: I don't know, it's a mystery.

Lost objects from another life are restored to you in the belly of a carp.

The ordinary-sized stuff which is our lives, the things people write poetry about — clouds — daffodils — waterfalls — and what happens in a cup of coffee when the cream goes in — these things are full of mystery, as mysterious to us as the heavens were to the Greeks.

There is an art to the building up of suspense.

Racing at four and a half times the speed of any other conveyance, Tom Thumb was both a marvel and a mystery. The train's owners and occupants first questioned whether the human body could endure such speed. Many of the passengers on Tom Thumb's first run were human guinea pigs who brought along paper and pencil to test whether cogent thought was possible at such speed.47

It takes the glory of God to conceal a matter. It takes the honor of the king to seek out for it.

God doesn't hide Himself from you so that He can't be found; He hides Himself from you so that He can be found.

Whose house is this? Whose night keeps out the light In here? Say, who owns this house? It's not mine. I dreamed another, sweeter, brighter With a view of lakes crossed in painted boats; Of fields wide as arms open for me. This house is strange. Its shadows lie. Say, tell me, why does its lock fit my key?

Birth, life, and death? each took place on the hidden side of a leaf.

People who die bad don't stay in the ground.