Quotes About Mystery

I would love to write a mystery - a romantic, funny mystery.

Oh, a grenade. But where is the bamboo bazooka?

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 have a suspicious mind, and murder is kind of my business.

He didn't know if he was amused or unsettled by her ability to unbalance him the way she had. Correction. He didn't know if he was amused, unsettled or pleased by her ability.

Leather and tattoos, they were his cover, and she wondered what she'd find when she unwrapped him.

This was going to be like hunting black cats at midnight on a moonless night.

You tell me the dead are coming through a crack in my barn, but I shouldn't worry?

He thinks you were trapped in a tree in the 1920s. How is that not crazy?

Love can be magic. But magic can sometimes... just be an illusion.

You are too bright, my Camille, too beautiful for so much darkness. And yet, you would walk under the dark of the moon

The shadows drifted near, then dragged away, as if the entire forest were breathing, as if her feet were its heartbeat, as if she were the only thing alive in the world.

As he caught his footing, his head fell back, and the Milky Way flowed down inside him with a roar.

Was this the bright vastness the poet Bash? saw when he wrote of the Milky Way arched over a stormy sea?

You've always been fond of understanding people too well." "They should arrange not to be understood quite so easily.

The stars, almost too many of them to be true, came forward so brightly that it was as if they were falling with the swiftness of the void.

The machinery of the sky that confounds us on earth with endless transformations of clouds in the light of dawn does not compare to the extraordinary tenacity of human beings, the way of human life, the presentiment of approaching death, the existence of love, the brilliant coruscations of light and the dark scars of our lives, to say nothing of the incomprehensible form of the cosmos and the overwhelming mysteries of space, time, distance.

O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.

The old women are most learned, but will not so readily be got to talk, for the fairies are very secretive, and much resent being talked of; and are there not many stories of old women who were nearly pinched into their graves or numbed with fairy blasts?

I call to the mysterious one who yet Shall walk the wet sand by the water's edge, And look most like me, being indeed my double, And prove of all imaginable things The most unlike, being my anti-self, And, standing by these characters, disclose All that I seek; and whisper it as though He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud Their momentary cries before it is dawn, Would carry it away to blasphemous men.

Midnight has come, and the great Christ Church Bell And many a lesser bell sound through the room; And it is All Soul's Night, And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come; For it is a ghost's right, His element is so fine Being sharpened by his death, To drink from the wine-breath While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.

I agree about Shaw -- he is haunted by the mystery he flouts. He is an atheist who trembles in the haunted corridor.

They can hardly separate mere learning from witchcraft, and are fond of words and verses that keep half their secret to themselves.

Where do you feel your soul inside you?" Stretched between my mouth-hole and my asshole, a white thread, not transparent mist, cramped in some corner between two bones, in pain. When it is full it disappears, like a cat.