Quotes About Mystery

All of us are private to ourselves. Nobody ever really knows anybody else. Everybody in the world keeps something to themselves.

I don't know what I've done that has made people so interested in me, more than anyone else.

One knows less about one's own destiny than about anything else on earth.

Anytime you kind of take the road that I've taken, people don't know what to expect.

I can't analyse my appeal. If I did, I'd be in a straitjacket.

I want to be in a space where, if I appear on the stage or the screen, the audience should not know what I'm going to do.

I myself delve into very arcane things.

Something about the way I look screams 'aristocrat, 1940s.' It's so strange, because I'm not.

Nobody can figure out why it does what it does to human beings. But there is no other art form greater than music.

This empty and deserted house is a vast enigma of which the answer is known to none.

Just as Clara Gazul is the female pseudonym of a distinguished male writer, George Sand the masculine pseudonym of a woman of genius, so Camille Maupin was the mask behind which was long hidden a charming young woman, very well-born, a Breton, named Felicite des Touches, the person who was now causing such lively anxiety to the Baronne du Guenic and the excellent rector of Guerande.

the daylight subdued by four red walls with narrow white stripes adopted a pink glow which lent faces and every last detail a mysterious grace and a fantastical quality…Sunbeams fell across the house obliquely, wrapping around it like a scarf, cutting across the parlor, expiring in a peculiar sheen on the paneling along the walls that backed onto the courtyard, and enveloping [the] woman in the scarlet zone projected by the damask curtain draped along the window.

Mais Paris est un véritable océan. Jetez-y la sonde, vous n'en connaîtrez jamais la profondeur.

O que está faltando? Um nada, mas um nada que é tudo. Vocês têm a aparência da vida mas não expressam o seu excesso transbordante, esse não sei o quê que talvez seja a alma e que flutua enevoadamente sobre o invólucro[...]

The problem of eternal beatitude is one of those whose solution is known only to God. Here, below, the sublimest poets have simply harassed their readers when attempting to picture paradise.

My mother, as a woman in her sixties, is mostly a mystery to me. In my mind, she's an eternal forty-two, and as her daughter, I never get past seventeen. There

We have the misfortune of living in a country that marches with the unknown; and that is apt to make the fancy sick. Though we laugh at old songs and old yarns, nevertheless, they are the yarn with which we weave our picture of the world.

But the other tribe — the passionate, tragic, rootless tree — man? Alas! He is a creature whose highest privileges are a curse. In his mouth is ever the bitter-sweet taste of life and death, unknown to the trees. Without respite he is dragged by the two wild horses, memory and hope; and he is tormented by a secret that he can never tell. For every man worthy of the name is an initiate; but each one into different Mysteries.

Huizen werden tot het Stille Volk gerekend. Muren hebben oren, maar geen tong. Huizen, bomen en doden zwijgen als het graf.

Who knows whether the gods will add tomorrow to the present hour?

Strange - is it not? That of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the road Which to discover we must travel too.

Y la madre creyó a la serpiente, porque en todas las religiones de los hombres la serpiente conoce el misterio de las vidas que pueblan los mundos.

Too much certainty is a miserable thing, while the unknowable has a pristine beauty and a wonder with no end.

You are strangers, too, sine nomine, even to yourselves. They