Quotes About Mystery

As if something moved toward them, old and dark.

Like the moon, you're only good and visible a few days a month. Exerting influence, pulling up whitecaps. The rest of time falling away, cut up into parts and nobody knows where you are.

Even angels are animals.

A man should have a safe big enough to hold his secrets. Bigger even, so you have room to grow

The stars looked like nail heads in the sky--pull a few of them out and the darkness would fall.

What he liked about his brother, he said, is that he made people become what they didn't think they could become. He twisted something in their hearts. Gave them new places to go. Even dead, he'd still do that. His brother believed that the space for God was one of the last great frontiers: men and women could do all sorts of things but the real mystery would always lie in a different beyond. He would just fling the ashes and let them settle where they wanted.

The watchers below pulled their breath in all at once. The air suddenly felt shared. The man above was a word they seemed to know, though they had not heard it before.

If you think you know all the secrets, you think you know all the cures.

That the reason life is so strange is that we have simply no idea what is around the next corner, and it was an obvious idea but one most of us had learned to forget.

Freedom was a word that everyone mentioned but none of us knew.

That's what I like about God. You get to know Him by His occasional absence.

What mystery we lose when we figure things out, but perhaps there's a mystery in the obvious, too.

She was all the delights of heaven and the fires of hell at once.

Gilly Gilleshpee

no one can resist what they can't detect".

The dead woman was Sarah Brandt.

It wasn't Sarah. Sarah wasn't dead.

She couldn't know everything about him, of course, because even Sarah didn't know that he was in love with her. But Mrs. Decker knew enough.

Mysterium iniquitatis, meaning, as I see it, that a crime in the final analysis remains inexplicable inasmuch as it cannot be fully traced back to biological, psychological and/or sociological factors. Totally explaining one's crime would be tantamount to explaining away his or her guilt and to seeing in him or her not a free and responsible human being but a machine to be repaired.

Murderers were not writing literature, after all; they were murdering.

the black, two-wheeled

Ben Freidman was lying to her, but in the hall of mirrors that was her life, she wasn't about to reveal what she really knew.

A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane As night descends upon the fabled street: A lonely hansom splashes through the rain, And ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet. Here though the world explode, these two survive, And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

and why the winter suns so rush to bathe themselves in the sea and what slows down the nights to a long lingering crawl...