Quotes About Mystery

and even now, at this hour, discreet old dowagers were shooting out in their motor cars on errands of mystery;

I am in love,' he said, not to her however, but to someone raised up in the dark so that you could not touch her but must lay your garland down on the grass in the dark.

Ista nas zvezda u istom radijusu drži. Na osnovu istih zakona bacamo senke. Pokušavamo nešto da saznamo, svako na svoj na?in, a i ono što ne znamo zajedni?ko nam je. Kako znam i umem, objasni?u, samo pitajte: šta je to gledati o?ima, zašto mi srce kuca i zbog ?ega moje telo nije pustilo korenje. Ali kako odgovarati na nepostavljena pitanja, ako si uz to neko za vas veoma ništavan.

with somebody's lost pair of sun-glasses for only witness.

Life is a great surprise. I do not see why death should not be an even greater one.

Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain By the false azure in the windowpane; I was the smudge of ashen fluff -and I Lived on, flew on, in the reflected sky. And from the inside, too, I'd duplicate Myself, my lamp, an apple on a plate: Uncurtaining the night, I'd let dark glass Hang all the furniture above the grass, And how delightful when a fall of snow Covered my glimpse of lawn and reached up so As to make chair and bed exactly stand Upon that snow, out in that crystal land!

Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.

I was the shadow of the waxwing slain/By the false azure in the windowpane...

Look at this tangle of thorns.

Life is a message scribbled in the dark.

It is certainly not then—not in dreams—but when one is wide awake, in moments of robust joy and achievement, on the highest terrace of consciousness, that mortality has a chance to peer beyond its own limits, from the mast, from the past and its castle tower. And although nothing much can be seen through the mist, there is somehow the blissful feeling that one is looking in the right direction.

It is easy for him and me to decipher now a past destiny; but a destiny in the making is, believe me, not one of those honest mystery stories where all you have to do is keep an eye on the clues.

An oblong puddle inset in the coarse asphalt; like a fancy footprint filled to the brim with quicksilver; like a spatulate hole through which you can see the nether sky. Surrounded, I note, by a diffuse tentacled black dampness where some dull dun dead leaves have stuck. Drowned, I should say, before the puddle had shrunk to its present size.

See you soon my strange joy, my tender night.

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet Age: five thousand three hundred days.

Your silence was effortless and windless, like the silence of clouds or plants. All silence is the recognition of a mystery. There was much about you that seemed mysterious. A

Poetry involves the mysteries of the irrational perceived through rational words.

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet. Age: five thousand three hundred days. Profession: none, or starlet. Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze? Why are you hiding, darling? (I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze, I cannot get out, said the starling).

This then is my story. I have reread it. It has bits of marrow sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies. At this or that twist of it I feel my slippery self eluding me, gliding into deeper and darker waters than I care to probe.

Knight seemed to him to be constantly playing some game of his own invention, without telling his partners its rules.

The spiritual and the physical had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to the matter-of-fact, crude, standard-brained youngsters of today. Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams.

A szemek. Ada sötétbarna szeme. VégsÅ' soron mi is a szem (kérdezi Ada)? Két lyuk az élet maszkján.

I now warn the reader not to mock me and my mental daze. It is easy for him and me to decipher now a past destiny; but a destiny in the making is, believe me, not one of those honest mystery stories where all you have to do is keep an eye on the clues. In my youth I once read a French detective tale where the clues were actually in italics; but that is not McFate's way—even if one does learn to recognize certain obscure indications.