Quotes About Mystery

I do like a road, because you can be always wondering what is at the end of it.

Anne? said Dacy sitting up in bed and propping his chin on his hands, Anne, where is sleep? People go to sleep every night, and of course I know it's a place where I do things I dream, but I want to know where it is and how to get there and back without knowing anything about it . . . and in my nighty too. Where is it?

Away down at the far end of the lake they got every night a glimpse of a big, continental train rushing through a clearing. Valancy liked to watch its lighted windows flash by and wonder who was on it and what hopes and fears it carried.

An old house that had lived its life long ago and so was very quiet and wise and a little mysterious. Also a little austere, but very kind.

He was a cat of double personality - or else, as Susan vowed, he was possessed by the devil.

And when it tips on a cloud some of them spill out and fall into your sleep.

Like all woods, it seemed to be holding and enfolding secrets in its recesses,—secrets whose charm is only to be won by entering in and patiently seeking.

but it seems to me there is something beyond words--any words--all words--something that always escapes you when you try to grasp it--and yet leaves something in your hand which you wouldn't have had if you hadn't reached for it.

it's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting if we know all about everything, would it

It just makes me feel glad to be alive—it's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting if we knew all about everything, would it? There'd be no scope for imagination then, would there?

There are some things that cannot be expressed in words.

And always when the flash came to her Emily felt that life was a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty.

It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty. Between it and herself hung only a thin curtain; she could never draw the curtain aside—but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond—only a glimpse—and heard a note of unearthly music.

He began to speak dreamily, partly because he wanted to thrill his companions a little, partly because something apart from him seemed to be speaking through his lips. The Piper is coming nearer, he said, he is nearer than he was that evening I saw him before. His long, shadowy cloak is blowing around him. He pipes—he pipes—and we must follow—Jem and Carl and Jerry and I—round and

Of course it was very interesting to see the old chest unpacked, said the Story Girl as she stirred the contents of a saucepan vigorously. But now that it is over I believe I am sorry that it is opened. It isn't mysterious any longer. We know all about it now, and we can never imagine what things are in it any more.

It simply makes me sense happy to be alive—it's such an exciting global. It wouldn't be 1/2 so thrilling if we realize all approximately everything, would it not? There'd be no scope for creativeness then, might there?

But after dark, Marilla, it's different. That is when ghosts walk." "There are no such things as ghosts, Anne.

Oh, but there are, Marilla," cried Anne eagerly. "I know people who have seen them. And they are respectable people. Charlie Sloane says that his grandmother saw his grandfather driving home the cows one night after he'd been buried for a year. You know Charlie Sloane's grandmother wouldn't tell a story for anything. She's a very religious woman. And Mrs. Thomas's father was pursued home one night by a lamb of fire with its head

Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive—it's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting if we know all about everything, would it? There'd be no scope for imagination then, would there?

Every night before I goto bed, I look out of my window and wonder if the dryad is really sitting here, combing her locks with the spring for a mirror. Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in the morning. Oh, Diana, don't give up your faith in the dryad!

The fir is the tree of mystery and shadows, and yields never to the encroachments of crude radiance

Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me glad to be alive. It's such an interesting world. It wouldn't be half so interesting, if we knew all about everything, would it? There'd be no scope for imagination then, would there?

What is the matter with Harrison Miller, anyway?

An indictment of the asphyxiating myth of the model minority, The Family Chao is a compelling murder mystery, a love story, a legal drama, a meditation on internalized racism… a must-read