Quotes About Mystery

Quite. Well., I haven't met the lady myself, but before she came we just had nice quiet larcenies, dopings, muggings, and the like. But since her arrival, it's been shootings, abductions, and now murders--the lot. I suppose you wouldn't like to take her back to London with you and give us all a rest?

Ich wusste nicht, wie das Licht verschwindet, obwohl ich eine ganze Stunde hinsah. Er sagte, es gäbe Sachen, die eben nicht in die Augen gehen.

The bread court does not deliberate, it punishes. It knows no mitigation, it needs no legal code. It is a law unto itself, because the hunger angel is also a thief who steals the brain. Bread justice has no prologue or epilogue, it is only here and now. Totally transparent, or totally mysterious. In any case, the violence meted out by bread justice is different from hungerless violence. You cannot approach the bread court with conventional morality.

Der Mann ist ein schwarzer Faden, der in die Pflanzen geht. Das schlagende Gras hebt ihn über die Erde.

Como botones de nácar que estuvieran cosidos por debajo, quizás hasta dentro de la tierra.

The Plane!, The Plane!

This was it. Kiyomi realized it now. This was what her heart had reacted to. Her heart thrilled to mitochondria. But why?

He felt strangely moved by the thought that Toshiaki's wife had been beautiful down to her liver.

As he lay down, a slight sigh spilled from his thin lips. Most likely it was just his chest wound having its say. Of course, no one else would ever know for sure. D's sorrow, his joy, and his pain belonged to him alone.

Night changed the streets. It dressed them in the mourning clothes named darkness, and applied the makeup called mystery.

The living corpse went to the jars and began a hair-raising activity. Skillfully removing the spring-loaded cap from one and plunging its hand in, it extracted the dripping entrails, ripped open its sealed wound, and lovingly pushed inwards, shoving its intestines back into their rightful place.

Cogswhallop glanced skeptically at the complex runes. "Are you sure this'll work, gen'ral?" "Of course I'm sure-" Ping. The silvery note echoed in the cramped room. Makenna felt her face turn scarlet.

It is almost a joke, but a joke that nobody tells.

A man's power is in the half-light, in the half-seen movements of his hand and the unguessed-at expression of his face. It is the absence of facts tat frightens people: the gap you open, into which they pour their fears, fantasies, desires.

He wonders again if the dead need translators; perhaps in a moment, in a simple twist of unbecoming, they know everything they need to know.

The maid found a handkerchief of hers, under the bed in which she had died. A ring that had been missing turned up in his own writing desk. A tradesman arrived with fabric she had ordered three weeks ago. Each day, some further evidence of a task half finished, a scheme incomplete. He found a novel, with her place marked. And this is it.

there are liasons which would put yours in the shade...

It is wise to conceal the past even if there is nothing to conceal. A man's power is in the half-light, in the half-seen movements of his hand and the unguessed-at expression of his face. It is the absence of facts that frightens people: the gap you open, into which they pour their fears, fantasies, desires.

She turns her head away, but through the thin film of her veil he can see her skin glow. Because women will coax: tell me, just tell me something, tell me your thoughts; and this he has done.

Intrigue feeds on itself; conspiracies have neither mother nor father, and yet they thrive: the only thing to know is that no one knows anything. Though

The dead wander the lanes of the next life like strangers lost in Venice.

Were you ever at the cathedral in Chartres? You walk the labyrinth," he says, "set into the pavement, and it seems there is no sense in it. But if you follow it faithfully it leads you straight to the center. Straight to where you should be.

Audley pats his arm. He wants to console him. But who can begin to do it? He si the inconsolable Master Cromwell: the unknowable, the inconstruable, the probably indefeasible Master Cromwell.

The moon, as if disgraced, trails rags of black cloud.