Quotes About Mystery

I suppose we'll never know what really happened in that room, though he did tell police, I did it because I'm a dirty dog. This is not a very convincing alibi. He may as well have said, I got 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one.

The last girl I love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably.

Life is fucking confusing. I don't know anything, and neither do you.

he was forty bushels beyond bamboozled.

The defining line from Frank Herbert's Dune argues that the mystery of life "is not a question to be answered but a reality to be experienced." My fantasy offers the opposite. Nothing would be experienced. Nothing would feel new or unknown or jarring. It's a fantasy for people who want to solve life's mysteries without having to do the work.

Julia's fake love for Vance was exhilarating and idiotic; it was the kind of love you can only feel toward someone you don't actually know.

If you know exactly what's going to happen tomorrow, the voltage of that experience is immediately mitigated.

Look up at the stars and you're gone.

Believe in me and die forever.

There are bodies buried everywhere you just have to know where to look.

Yes, I kidnapped that Lindberg baby.

This would be...a book that would be a trapdoor down into some place dark. A place only you could go, alone, when you opened the cover. Because only books have that power.

If I turn up suicided in the morning, it was murder.

There's still a thousand places I haven't gone to die.

In the way our world is, everybody shoulder to shoulder, people knowing everything about you at first glance, a good veil is your tinted limousine window. The unlisted number for your face. Behind a good veil, you could be anyone.

The club is too loud to talk, so after a couple of drinks, everyone feels like the centre of attention but completely cut off from participating with anyone else. You're the corpse in an English murder mystery.

There's a terrible dark joy when the only person who knows all your secrets is finally dead.

A sphinx. A mystery. A blank. Unknown. Undefined. Unknowable. Indefinable. Those were all the words Brandy used to describe me in my veils. Not just a story that goes and then, and then, and then, and then until you die.

I stepped into the back of a cab and simply told the driver, Follow the blue Christmas tree...

Not that I'm crazy or any­thing, I just want some proof that death isn't the end.

A woman calls from Seaview to say her linen closet is missing. Last September, her house had six bedrooms, two linen closets. She's sure of it. Now she's only got one. She comes to open her beach house for the summer. She drives out from the city with the kids and the nanny and the dog, and here they are with all heir luggage, and their towels are gone. Disappeared. Poof. Bermuda triangulated.

Cuando nos morimos, esas son las historias que siguen en nuestro labios. Las historias que solamente les contamos a desconocidos, en algún lugar íntimo de la celda acolchada de la medianoche. Esas historias importantes que nos pasamos años ensayando mentalmente pero que nunca contamos. Esas historias son fantasmas, que traen a la gente de vuelta de entre los muertos. Solamente un momento. De visita. Cada historia es un fantasma.

The first rule of film club is you don't talk about Rosebud.

You don't understand any of it, and then you just die.