Quotes About Mystery

La gente dice que el coyote es un brujo. Muchas veces el brujo es un coyote.

Where do we go when we die? he said. I dont know, the man said. Where are we now?

Vuestro máximo deseo es que os cuente algún misterio. El misterio es que no hay ningún misterio.

He was trudging out across the field with his chin down so that withdrawing in the firelight he looked like a headless revenant turned away from the warmth of men's gatherings.

I had this dream. What dream. I had it twice. Well what was it. There was this big fire out on the dry lake. There aint nothin to burn on a dry lake. I know it. What happened. These people were burnin. The lake was on fire and they was burnin up. It's probably somethin you ate. I had the same dream twice. Maybe you ate the same thing twice. I dont think so.

The judge tilted his great head. The man who believes that the secrets of the world are forever hidden lives in mystery and fear. Superstition will drag him down. The rain will erode the deeds of his life. But that man who sets himself the task of singling out the thread of order from the tapestry will by the decision alone have taken charge of the world and it is only by such taking charge that he will effect a way to dictate the terms of his own fate.

You will never know what the world is made of. The only thing that's certain is that it's not made of the world. As you close upon some mathematical description of reality you can't help but lose what is being described.

That old she-painter, she never left a track one. She wadn't no common kind of painter.

Es un gran misterio. El hombre no puede conocer su mente porque la mente es el único medio de que dispone para conocerla. Puede conocer su corazón, pero no quiere. Y hace bien. Es mejor no mirar ahí dentro. No es el corazón de una criatura que siga el camino que Dios le ha marcado. Se puede encontrar maldad hasta en el más pequeño de los animales, pero cuando Dios creó al hombre el diablo estaba a su lado. Una

For we are all the elect, each one of us, and we are embarked upon a journey to something unimaginable. We do not know what will be required of us, and we have nothing to sustain us but the counsel of our fathers.

Pues la existencia tiene su propio orden y eso no puede comprenderlo ninguna inteligencia humana, siendo que la propia inteligencia no es sino un hecho entre otros.

Who would steal them? No idea. They didnt leave a note.

So where does music come from? No one knows. A platonic theory of music just muddies the water. Music is made out of nothing but some fairly simple rules. Yet it's true that no one made them up. The rules. The notes themselves amount to almost nothing. But why some particular arrangement of these notes should have such a profound effect on our emotions is a mystery beyond even the hope of comprehension. Music is not a language.

The house was built in 1872. Seventy-seven years later his grandfather was the first to die in it. What others had lain in state in that hallway had been carried there on a gate or wrapped in a wagonsheet or delivered crated up in a raw pineboard box with a teamster standing at the door with a bill of lading. The ones that came at all. For the most part they were dead by rumor. A yellowed scrap of newsprint. A letter. A telegram.

Will children yet to come harbor a longing for a thing they cannot even name?

Music is made out of nothing but some fairly simple rules. Yet it's true that no one made them up. The rules. The notes themselves amount to almost nothing. But why some particular arrangement of these notes should have such a profound effect on our emotions is a mystery beyond even the hope of comprehension. Music

He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.

He was shot in a fracas of some kind. Long fore he married. Come near dyin. So I always wondered about that, had he died none of us would never have been at all and I never could … Well, that's a funny thing to think. Maybe we would have just been somebody else.

I'm not sure what the adaptive advantage could be to share an innate and collective misery.

Night fell long and cool through the woods about him and a spectral quietude set in. As if something were about that crickets and nightbirds held in dread.

White Was he killed? Black I hope so. We buried him.

The streetlamps stood in globes of vapor and the buildings were dark and sweating. At times the city seemed older than Nineveh.

que somos las víctimas del tiempo. En realidad la vía del mundo no es fijada en ningún lugar. Cómo sería posible? Nosotros mismos somos nuestra propia jornada. Y por eso somos el tiempo también. Somos lo mismo. Fugitivo. Inescrutable. Desapiadado.

The old lamps down Chartres Street like burning gauze in the fog.