Quotes About Mystery

Well—it had all grown out of the other choice she had made when, years ago, she had said: "Thy gods shall not be my gods." And now she but dimly guessed who their gods were. At the moment when her very life depended on her knowing their passwords, holding the clue to their labyrinth, she stood outside the mysterious circle and vainly groped for a way in.

But these mysteries, and many others, were closely locked in Mr. Jackson's breast; for not only did his keen sense of honour forbid his repeating anything privately imparted, but he was fully aware that his reputation for discretion increased his opportunities of finding out what he wanted to know.

Her grey hair was arranged with precision, and her clothes looked excessively new and yet slightly old-fashioned. They were always black and tightly fitting, with an expensive glitter: she was the kind of woman who wore jet at breakfast. Lily had never seen her when she was not cuirassed in shining black, with small tight boots, and an air of being packed and ready to start; yet she never started.

Was she beautiful—or was she only someone apart?

Todos vivían en una especie de mundo de acertijos, donde lo verdadero nunca se decía ni se hacía ni se pensaba.

After all, what did he know of her life? Only as much as she had chosen to show him, and measured by the world's estimate, how little that was!

What's the use of making mysteries? It only makes people want to nose 'em out.

Mrs. Grancy acquired the charm which makes some women's faces like a book of which the last page is never turned. There was always something new to read in her eyes. What Claydon read there—or at least such scattered

She could only gather, from the silences and evasions amid which she moved, that a woman had turned up—a woman who was of course dreadful, and whose dreadfulness appeared to include a sort of shadowy claim upon Arthur. But the claim, whatever it was, had been promptly discredited.

It is our ignorance of things that causes all our admiration and chiefly excites our passions.

Man is not only ruled by evil passions; but his rational capacity is severely limited as well. Without the warm cloak of custom, tradition, experience, history, religion, and social hierarchy—all of which radical man would rip off—man is shivering and naked. Free man from all mystery, demystify his institutions and his intellectual world, and you leave him alone in a universe of insignificance, incapacity, and inadequacy.

Well, my dear fellow, if you say so. But who is the Botticelli murderer?' 'I don't know.' 'But you must know by now, my dear fellow,' said the Major plaintively. 'We're practically at the end of the book.' All

Their squalor, being indescribable, will not be described.

O Who can tell The hidden power of herbes, and might of Magick spell?

GOE, little booke: thy selfe present, As child whose parent is unkent, To him that is the president Of noblesse and of chevalree:

And later times thinges more vnknowne shall show. Why then should witlesse man so much misweene That nothing is but that which he hath seene? What if within the Moones fayre shining sphere, What if in euery other starre vnseene Of other worldes he happily should heare?

Had he already inspired a passion in some stranger's heart?

You're universally liked because you're such a black hole in space. You don't have any real traits. You're sympa , at least as much as a narcissist can be, but that means nothing. You're beautiful and everybody projects onto you what they're looking for, which is easy to do since you don't stand for anything definite. You're a black hole in space.

There's something mystic and beautiful in the ineffable.

AUTHORS SHOULD BE READ BUT NOT SEEN; RARELY ARE THEY A WINSOME SIGHT.

We don't know others. They are an enigma. We can't know them, especially those we are most intimate with, because habit blurs us and hope blinds us to the truth.

We don't know others. They are an enigma. We can't know them, especially those we are most intimate with, because habit blurs us and hope blinds us with truth.

FOR THREE NIGHTS in a row, Dilly has dreamed of Gabriel, a look of yearning on his face, the clothes hanging off him, making no attempt to come to her and yet making his presence felt, standing on an empty road, like he was waiting. Three nights in a row. "It must mean that he's trying to reach you," Sister says. "It doesn't," Dilly answers

suddenly the window flew open, swung back and forth on its hinges, as if something was about to come in, and she waited in dread for what that something might be.