Quotes About Mystery

Q is a terrific part.

I'm terrified to go in lakes because you can't see the bottom, and not knowing what's there watching you is really scary to me.

I love and am terrified of the water, particularly the ocean.

I'm terrified of the ocean. I think it's beautiful and magical, but I never go in. That deep, dark water, with no understanding of what goes on behind it - I think that's a metaphor for a lot of things.

The ocean, to me, is one of the most terrifying things on the planet.

If you read Grimm's fairy tales, they're absolutely terrifying.

I'm going to try to tell stories and let each tale skate its own way into dark or light territory as the needs of the story steer me.

I think the way to create a lot of terror in a haunted house film is to have a bunch of people who have no idea what's happening to them, and you sort of live the movie through their eyes.

It may interest you to know that my breakup with Terry and this mystery did not happen concurrently in real life. That is a writer's device, which places Gabriel under even greater pressure when the mystery begins to reveal itself.

In many previously classified documents relating to activities at the base, the words 'Area 51' are conveniently blacked out. There's always a euphemism for it - like 'the test facility' or 'the base' - but never 'Area 51.'

From the Old Testament, containing the Atlantean Mystery teaching, we learn that mankind was created male-female, bi-sexual, and that each one was capable of propagating his species without the co-operation of another, as is the case with some plants today.

As a species, we've always been interested in what happens when we're no longer around, all the way back to 'Revelations' in 'The New Testament.'

The disappearance of MH370 has tested our collective resolve.

I went through a phase of buying a lot of masks, as anyone who has been to a party at the house will testify.

We don't know a tenth of what there is to know," Mr. Pendergast said. "Why we don't even know a sixth.

Everybody has his own revelations, but the mass of the totality has never been revealed to anybody.

Where I come from Nobody knows; And where I'm going Everything goes. The wind blows, The sea flows - And nobody knows.

How little we have, I thought, between us and the waiting cold, the mystery, death--a strip of beach, a hill, a few walls of wood or stone, a little fire--and tomorrow's sun, rising and warming us, tomorrow's hope of peace and better weather . . . What if tomorrow vanished in the storm? What if time stood still? And yesterday--if once we lost our way, blundered in the storm--would we find yesterday again ahead of us, where we had thought tomorrow's sun would rise?

She has a look," I said, "of not altogether belonging to today.

Give thanks for sorrow that teaches you pity; for pain that teaches you courage - and give exceeding thanks for the mystery which remains a mystery still - the veil that hides you from the infinite, which makes it possible for you to believe in what you cannot see.

ONE must sometimes believe what one cannot understand. That is the method of the scientist as well as the mystic: faced with a universe which must be endless and infinite, he accepts it, although he cannot really imagine it. For there is no picture in our minds of infinity; somewhere, at the furthermost limits of thought, we never fail to plot its end. Yet—if there is no end? Or if, at the end, we are only back at the beginning again?

It seems to me that I have always wanted to say the same thing in my books: that life is one, that mystery is all around us, that yeterday, today and tomorrow are all spread out in the pattern of eternity, together, and that although love may wear many faces in the incomprehensible panorama of time, in the heart that loves, it is always the same.

How little we have, I thought, between us and the waiting cold, the mystery, death—a strip of beach, a hill, a few walls of wood or stone, a little fire—and tomorrow's sun, rising and warming us, tomorrow's hope of peace and better weather

I stared at her, thinking: of course, how would she know about bitterness, how would she know about the artist at all? caught in a mystery for which he must find some answer, both for himself and for his fellow men, a mystery of good and evil, of blossom and rot — the mystery of a world which learns too late, which is the mold, and which the bloom . . .