Quotes About Mystery

Deep in the muddled darkness six copper pheasant feathers glowed in a cradle of blackthorn.

children treasure the hope that they might be like the children in books: secretly magical, part of some deeper, mysterious world that makes them something out of the ordinary.

Looking for goshawks is like looking for grace: it comes, but not often, and you don't get to say when or how. But you have a slightly better chance on still, clear mornings in early spring

That was the great puzzle, and it was played out again and again. How hearts do stop.

It must have been like death,'3 he wrote, 'the thing which we can never know beforehand.

Looking for goshawks is like looking for grace: it comes, but not often, and you don't get to say when or how.

Knots were probably the earliest spells.

Dear Miranda Silver, This house is bigger than you know! There are extra floors, with lots of people in them. They are looking people. They look at you, and they never move. We do not like them. We do not like this house, and we are glad to be going away. This is the end of our letter.

Most nights she went with the moon, and when it was round she stayed in my biggest bedroom and wouldn't answer the thing that asked her to let it out (let you out from where? let me out from the small, the hot, the take me out of the fire i am ready i am hard like the stones you ate, bitter like those husks) the moonlight striped her, marked out places where the whispering thing would slip through and she would unfold.

I remembered something from a short story I'd read, about how the girl you want is the girl you see once and then she is nowhere to be found. The girl who does not appear in the crowded room.

Wolves are hosting wedding feasts and witches are brushing their hair today." Presence

As always, the soucouyant seemed more lonely than bad. Maybe that was her trick, her ability to make it so you couldn't decide if she was a monster.

He answered with a smile. The darkest and most malignant I had ever seen, too strong to be voluntary. The door, I thought. The door. But I didn't dare turn to it, in case it wasn't there.

When I saw you for the first time, I thought you had a secret life.

She is a double danger—there is the danger of meeting her, and the danger of becoming her. Does the nightmare of her belong to everyone, or just to me?

For my Mr. Fox (whoever you are)

Love is like a magic carpet with a mind of its own. You step on that carpet and it takes you places–marvelous places, odd places, terrifying places, places you'd never have been able to reach on foot. Yeah, love's a real adventure! But you go where the carpet goes; after you've stepped onto it you don't get to choose a goddamned thing.

She was not sure how to pronounce his name, not even in her head would the sound make any sense. She had to look away to stop herself from making up more stories about him.

But then some people give off a strange sense of preoccupation, as if there is something in their lives so important to them that they have to keep it silent, and close. And to keep this thing close, they make sacrifices.

Where do you see yourself in ten years' time?" she asked. My answer: "Not sure, but maybe on a beach reading a really good mystery. Not a murder mystery, but the kind where the narrator has to find out what year it is and why he was even born .

Who's there? Something old? Someone holy...?

Now, St. John could have been born into his elegance. It's a dangerous kind of elegance—he doesn't raise his voice, he lowers it.

The stormy night turned the window of Lucy's room into a door;

Safiye looked as if she was formed of fire herself, particles of flame dancing the flesh of her arm into existence. That or she was returning to fire.