Quotes About Mystery

Ponto nox incubat atra.

obscuris vera involvens:

Ille admirans venerabile donum fatalis virgae, longo post tempore visum, caeruleam advertit puppim, ripaeque propinquat.

Quis furor iste novus?

pledge of a love that were better unnamed

Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.

Her eyes are pure stars, and her fingers, if they touch you, freeze you to the bone.

Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.

Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.

The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it.

She looked pale, mysterious, like a lily, drowned under water, he thought.

The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.

Pray heaven that the inside of my mind may not be exposed

Heaven has mercifully decreed that the secrets of all hearts are hidden so that we are lured on for ever to suspect something, perhaps, that does not exist.

In the 18th century we knew how everything was done, but here I rise through the air, I listen to voices in America, I see men flying- but how is it done? I can't even begin to wonder. So my belief in magic returns.

And the supreme mystery was simply this: here was one room; there another. Did religion solve that, or love?

In illness words seem to possess a mystic quality.

For there she was.

Absorbing, mysterious, of infinite richness, this life.

Nothing need be said; nothing could be said.

There is something I want-something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeper without knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed.

She was off like a bird, bullet, or arrow, impelled by what desire, shot by whom, at what directed, who could say?

Doesn't it make you melancholy—looking at the stars?

This is our world, lit with crescents and stars of light; and great petals half transparent block the openings like purple windows. Everything is strange. Things are huge and very small. The stalks of flowers are thick as oak trees. Leaves are high as the domes of vast cathedrals. We are giants, lying here, who can make forests quiver.