Quotes About Mystery

I believe you," I repeated, my tongue thick with all the waiting words. "I've had that feeling, too. Knowing things you can't know. From before you can remember." And there it was again! A sudden movement in the corner of my eye, there and gone in the same instant.

Thomas Ambrose Proctor!

Anything could happen while the dead slept. Which was why some would say a woman shouldn't tread alone through a cemetery at 2:55 on a Tuesday morning in April.

I smiled into the clever eyes. "Find out for me," I said, "whether Oliver

Evangelos Christou. In his introduction to Logos of the Soul, Hillman would write about how psychotherapy's legitimacy was "based on the soul" and the failure to make this clear "has resulted in psychologies which are bastard sciences and degenerate philosophies." Christou's was "a document humain attesting to the mystery of the soul.

Next came the thesis by Hillman's late friend, Evangelos Christou. In his introduction to Logos of the Soul, Hillman would write about how psychotherapy's legitimacy was "based on the soul" and the failure to make this clear "has resulted in psychologies which are bastard sciences and degenerate philosophies." Christou's was "a document humain attesting to the mystery of the soul.

The sea sounded like a thousand secrets, all whispered at the same time.

My God - it's a green child! said the American. What is this place - the House of Usher?

What is this insurmountable barrier round him? What's it made of? Where did it come from?

Now, carols are always beautiful, but if you are sad they can make you feel sadder. (There are some people who always find beauty makes them feel sadder, which is a very mysterious thing.)

Any cat can make a house seem haunted.

There are some people who always find beauty makes them feel sadder, which is a very mysterious thing.

I long for the days of disorder. I want them back, the days when I was alive on the earth, rippling in the quick of my skin, heedless and real. I was dumb-muscled and angry and real. This is what I long for, the breach of peace, the days of disarray when I walked real streets and did things slap-bang and felt angry and ready all the time, a danger to others and a distant mystery to myself.

People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night. I carry this thought, the child's mystery and terror of this thought, I feel this immensity in my soul every second of my life.

Everything's a scandal. Dying's a scandal. But we all do it.

Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?

There is a world inside the world.

He said, The word for moonlight is moonlight.

holes are interesting. there are books about holes.

I drove all night, northeast, and once again I felt it was literature I had been confronting these past days, the archetypes of the dismal mystery, sons and daughters of the archetypes, images that could not be certain which of two confusions held less terror, their own or what their own might become if it ever faced the truth. I drove at insane speeds.

It's there in your face, all of it, the way it rarely shows in any face. What do I see? Something lazy, sexy and insatiable.

If this makes me sexier then where are you going?

There is enough mystery in the facts as we know them, enough of conspiracy, coincidence, loose ends, dead ends, multiple interpretations. There is no need […] to invent the grand and masterful scheme, the plot that reaches flawlessly in a dozen directions.

What's the importance of a photograph if you know the writer's work? But people still want the image, don't they? The writer's face is the surface of the work. It's a clue to the mystery inside.