Quotes About Mystery

You're no killer.' He has no idea what I am. Maybe I don't know, either. Maybe I never let myself find out.

We trade kisses in the darkness, blurred by exhaustion.

Despite the deep pits that lead to oubliettes, the trees that move to make you lose your way, the ice spiders that wrap their prey in frozen gossamer, the mad king, and the curse.

Cardan begins to strip off his shirt, showing an expanse of moon-pale skin and a back with a delicate tracery of faded scars.

Furnished in elaborate velvets, silks, and brocades, it's a riot of scarlet and deep blues and greens, everything rich and dark, like overripe fruit. The patterns on the material are the sorts of things I have become accustomed to- intricate braids of briars, leaves that might also be spiders when you looked at them from another angle, and a depiction of a hunt where it is unclear which of the creatures is hunting the other.

Unless he turns his clothes inside out, which I am fairly confident he doesn't know to do, he'll never find us.

Ah! A lady of mystery. My very favourite kind!' He's wearing a green doublet, with slits to show his silk shirt underneath. HIs fox eyes are alight. He looks like a faerie lover stepped out of a ballad, the kind where no good comes to the girl who runs away with him.

Have you discovered aught of my erstwhile murderer?

If I am to be a cat, let me give you a scratch.

by you, i am forever undone" -cardan greenbriar

The braided weeds and briars of her hair fall around her, serving as a cape. Large black eyes peer out from the tangle. She wears a gown of drab cloth and bark. When she moves, I see her feet are bare. Rings shine on several of her toes.

This is the real Coldtown. I'm the real Coldtown. You still want in?

Behind the abandoned house, two faerie horses chew on dandelions as they wait for their riders. Slight as deer, with a soft halo of light surrounding their bodies, they glide between the trees like ghosts. Oak goes to the first. Her coat a soft grey, her mane braided into something that looks like netting, and which is hung with gold beads. Tooled leather saddlebags rest against her flanks. She nuzzles into his hand.

Holly Black, Cassandra Clare

Ocean, who is the source of all.

A hunter of shadows, himself a shade.

The gods, likening themselves to all kinds of strangers, go in various disguises from city to city, observing the wrongdoing and the righteousness of men.

Surely these things lie on the knees of the gods.

My name is Nobody.

In the desert there is all—and yet nothing…. God is there and man is not.

Clouds symbolize the veils that shroud God.

The secret of great fortunes with no apparent source is a forgotten crime.

Suicide, moreover, was at the time in vogue in Paris: what more suitable key to the mystery of life for a skeptical society?

Mais Paris est un véritable océan. Jetez-y la sonde, vous n'en connaîtrez jamais la profondeur. Parcourez-le, décrivez-le : quelque soin que vous mettiez à le parcourir, à le décrire ; quelques nombreux et intéressés que soient les explorateurs de cette mer, il s'y rencontrera toujours un lieu vierge, un antre inconnu, des fleurs, des perles, des monstres, quelque chose d'inouï, oublié par les plongeurs littéraires.