Quotes About Mystery

Roberta Marieschi

And that, Brunetti realized, was beginning to interest him a great deal, for the answer to his death must lie there, as it always did. Santore

The Cloud of Unknowing.

Who was it that said that coincidence was just God's way of remaining anonymous?

They all shared a certain coolness, a cruel, mannered charm which was not modern in the least but had the strange cold breath of the ancient world : they were magnificent creatures, such eyes, such hands, such looks - sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat.

I've come to realize that the only truths that matter to me are the ones I don't, and can't, understand. What's mysterious, ambiguous, inexplicable. What doesn't fit into a story, what doesn't have a story. Glint of brightness on a barely-there chain. Patch of sunlight on a yellow wall. The loneliness that separates every living creature from every other living creature. Sorrow inseparable from joy.

I blinked at her. My shades were down and the hall was dark and to me, half-drugged and reeling, she seemed not at all her bright unattainable self but rather a hazy and ineffably tender apparition, all slender wrists and shadows and disordered hair, the Camilla who resided, dim and lovely, in the gloomy boudoir of my dreams.

All her grace was in her vagueness. Her voice was soft, her manner languid, her features blurred and dreamy.

Twelve years after Robin's death, no one knew any more about how he had ended up hanged from a tree in his own yard than they had on the day it happened.

I mean, this man was not /Voltaire/ we killed.

I hope we're all ready to leave the phenomenal world, and enter into the sublime?

Reason is always apparent to a discerning eye. But luck? It's invisible, erratic, angelic.

When she went back to the telephone Hely's breath, on the other end, was ragged and secretive.

La morte è la madre della bellezza» disse Henry. «E cos'è la bellezza?» «Terrore.»

Understand, by saying 'God,' I am merely using 'God' as reference to long-term pattern we can't decipher.

Because: if our secret defines us, as opposed to the face we show the world: then the painting was the secret that raised me above the surface of life and enabled me to know who I am. And it's there: in my notebooks, every page, even though it's not. Dream and magic, magic and delirium. The Unified Field Theory. A secret about a secret.

It is here that the stilted mannequins of my initial acquaintance begin to yawn and stretch and come to life. It was months before the gloss and mystery of newness, which kept me from seeing them with much objectivity, would wear entirely off... it is here, in my memory, that they cease being totally foreign and begin to appear, for the first time, in shapes very like their bright old selves.

the world is much stranger than we know or can say. And I know how you think, or how you like to think, but maybe this is one instance where you can't boil down to pure 'good' or pure 'bad' like you always want to do—? Like, your two different piles? Bad over here, good over here? Maybe not quite so simple.

I don't know where Henry was. Probably looking at the moon and reciting some poem from the T'ang Dynasty.

coincidence was just God's way of remaining anonymous?

It does all swing around strangely sometimes, doesn't it.

A character like his disintegrates under analysis. It can only be defined by the anecdote, the chance encounter or the sentence overheard.

God' as reference to long-term pattern we can't decipher.

Things will come to you and you're not going to know exactly how they fit in. You have to trust in the way they all fit together, that your subconscious knows what you're doing.