Quotes About Mystery

Sophie lut: « Va prendre l'étoile tombée Et fais enfanter la mandragore, cette racine pure. Dis-moi où sont donc les années écoulées Ou qui du diable le sabot fend. Apprends-moi à entendre des sirènes le chant Ou à retenir de l'envie les morsures Et trouve céans Quel bon vent Permet à l'esprit honnête d'aller de l'avant. Décide de ce qu'il en est Et le second couplet toi-mémé écriras. »

seen without clothes on. Their skins were greenish

Below us somewhere in the gelatinous phantasmagoria of churning blue, the whales wouldn't be much aware of the storm.

Everyone admits that love is wonderful and necessary, yet no one agrees on just what it is.

It began in mystery and it will end in mystery, but what a rare and beautiful country lies in between.

Insight roams the sea of the unconscious like the Loch Ness monster, a rumor whose wake occasionally becomes visible, but even then it's mystifying and scarcely believed.

T]here is only one zot, thisness. Zot is a feminine word for this. The word zot is itself one of the names of God—the thisness of what is. The

A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.

What moves me about...what's called technique...is that it comes from some mysterious deep place. I mean it can have something to do with the paper and the developer and all that stuff, but it comes mostly from some very deep choices somebody has made that take a long time and keep haunting them.

Growing up in a household where something is terribly wrong, you feel the weight of that mysterious something even though it's unspoken. It eats at you. Confuses you. It leaves you wondering if your view of the world will ever make sense.

True,) the white hole said. (My name is Khairelikoblepharehglukumeilichephreidosd'enagouni-) and at the same time he went flickering through a pattern of colors that was evidently the visual translation.

What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney?

There must be more to stories than you think.

It was sublime—and the sublime is not to be trusted.

I reached for the prescription. In a vigorous scrawl, he inked: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. Take ten pages, twice a day, till end of course.

Her eyes were too full of beauty to leave room for anything so mundane as intelligence.

The laws of life and death, as she had learned them, were incomplete. There was more to life, more to death, than medical science had known.

There were some for whom the world was such a tricky thing that they marvelled at it without feeling any need to puzzle it out.

There's a great many things hard to fathom in darkness that set themselves straight in the light of day.

Yesterday or the day before, while I had been going about my business, quietly and in private, some unknown person—some stranger—had gone to the trouble of marking my name onto this envelope. Who was it who had had his mind's eye on me while I hadn't suspected a thing?

All evidence of the house ghost reasserting herself.

Jane Eyre. Villette. The Woman in White." "Middlemarch

Shirley goes over the edge." "I don't like games like this." "Now George Sand starts to go up in flames." I sighed and closed my eyes. "Wuthering Heights

holding up a single picture and studying it with a frown. She's seen a ghost