Quotes About Mystery

Hey, Gertie, something strange happened last night." Gertie patted my leg. "I'm sure it seemed that way, but things in Sinful are never quite normal compared to other places.

I saw your shower curtain hit the back lawn. You'll need to replace that." "I have a spare," I said. "Why on earth would you have a spare shower curtain?" he asked. "In case I need to haul off a body," I said.

I stepped off the Learjet at the private airfield just before dawn. I'd been on the plane exactly seventeen hours, twenty-six minutes and fourteen seconds, wearing the same eight-hundred-dollar dress I'd worn when I killed a man twenty-five hours earlier.

Maryse stared. "You hear her, too?" Luc grimaced. "Unfortunately. Why do you think I looked behind you when

Ida Belle grabbed the purse, her arms dropping a bit, then set it on the coffee table. I leaned over as she pulled out a small retail store. Nine-

It was okay though," Gertie said. "Jeb said she wasn't a pleasant woman anyway, so we vacuumed the rug and deposited her in the flower bed out front." "I was beginning to question why we're friends when you told us about the lights," I said. "But you sort of redeemed the whole thing with the efficient flower bed disposal part of the story." "I'm guessing Jeb's mother might feel differently," Ida Belle said.

Is there more meat?" I asked. Ida Belle nodded. "I'm pretty sure there's a black hole in the bottom of Gertie's trunk and meat is coming through it from another planet. We've hardly made a dent.

into some odd business concerning Gilbert Forrest.

You thought only the CIA could bury things. Be careful, Fortune. I like you, and I'd like to sell you another dress the next time you're forced to wear one. I just don't want it to be the one they lower you into the ground in.

The people of the stone houses are gone, whirled like chaff over dry fields, scattered by the war dances of dust devils. what remains — sculpted walls, curved shards, small stores of corn — says little. What we know is that they lived like birds. That from their doorways they looked out and out over shimmering trees into the arms of sky, And that one day, light-boned, weightless as any winged flock before a journey, they rose and flew. —Mesa Verde

Only criminals and madmen walk into Central Park after midnight...or, occasionally, an actor. (Dark City Lights)

But if the Dithyrambos, the young Dionysos, like the Bull-God, the Tree-God, arises from a dromenon, a rite, what is the rite of second birth from which it arises?

and my professional idol Vanessa Redgrave. There is a quality about Vanessa that makes me feel as if she resides in a nether-world of mystery that eludes the rest of us mortals. Her voice seems to come from some deep place that knows all suffering and all secrets. Watching her work is like seeing through layers of glass, each layer painted in mythic watercolor images, layer after layer, until it becomes dark—but even then you know you haven't come to the bottom of it.

But it's true, she thought, nobody really knows a thing about another's past. Why should we? Different worlds we all inhabit from the womb.

The thought that something we cannot see, of unsurpassable skill and unimaginable form, exists in the back room's locked safe—isn't this, for any artist, for any person, an irresistible hope, beautiful and disturbing as the distant baying of Thoreau's lost hound that tells us, not least, that the mysteries of distance are endless?

YÅ«gen's hallmarks [are] mystery and depth .. . . it is characterized by sadness, unspoken connotations, imagery of a veiled, monochromatic nature, and an atmosphere of haunting beauty.

And that the hand of fate has sleight and craft to match that of any magician.

A traditional mystery is a whodunit, whereas a thriller is a how-can-we-stop-them-from-doing-it. As you compare these seemingly opposite subgenres in Figure 1.1, you'll note that although they differ in essential ways, they share a fundamental element—the use of suspense.

I want to tell you everything without saying anything." (118)

I discovered that the horse is life itself, a metaphor but also an example of life's mystery and unpredictability, of life's generosity and beauty, a worthy object of repeated and ever changing contemplation.

it's much more interesting to try and understand what binds two people together. why we stay with each other is much more of a mystery than why we don't.

What in the name of a thousand ghouls were you doing in that miserable café?

His mother had become like an ocean to the boy, vast and unknowable, with faraway shorelines he could never see, could not even imagine from where he stood but that he nevertheless sensed were vivid and real.

Morning mists skulked over the river.