Quotes About Mystery

The house was very quiet, and the fog—we are in November now—pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.

The ends of the earth, the depths of the sea, the darkness of time, you have chosen all three.

They were his last words, because Maurice had disappeared thereabouts, leaving no trace of his presence except a little pile of the petals of the evening primrose, which mourned from the ground like an expiring fire. To the end of his life Clive was not sure of the exact moment of departure, and with the approach of old age he grew uncertain whether the moment had yet occurred.

The Arts are not drugs. They are not guaranteed to act when taken. Something as mysterious and capricious as the creative impulse has to be released before they can act.

She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second time. Paul and his mother, ripple and great wave, had flowed into her life and ebbed out of it forever. The ripple had left no traces behind: the wave had strewn at her feet fragments torn from the unknown. A curious seeker, she stood for a while at the verge of the sea that tells so little, but tells a little, and watched the outgoing of this last tremendous tide.

It is not rubbish! It is the part of people that you do not understand.

It was the hour of unreality—the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real.

Love was so unlike the article served up in books: the joy, though genuine, was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery.

She was like a woman of Leonardo Da Vinci's, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us.

They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation.

S]he might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of meaning.

Look at this evening. Cousin Kate! Imagine, Cousin Kate! But where have you been off to? Did you succeed in catching the moon in the Ganges?

Life is a mysterious business.

She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci's, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us.

While the Gods are powerful, we learn little about them. It is only in their day of decadence that a strong light beats into heaven.

They were his last words, because Maurice had disappeared thereabouts, leaving no trace of his presence except a little pile of the petals of the evening primrose, which mourned from the ground like an expiring fire.

He was not attracted to the man in the sense that he wanted him for a friend, but he did feel he might help him – how, he didn't formulate. It was all very obscure, for the mountains still overshadowed Maurice. Risley, surely capering on the summit, might stretch him a helping hand.

There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive.

Maurice did not understand, but the voice soothed him.

But the body is deeper than the soul and its secrets inscrutable.

Clive pulled him back into themselves. He murmured something about Eternity in an hour: Maurice did not understand, but the voice soothed him.

There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin.

Mother, who toom?

But this place has wonderful powers." "What do you mean?" "I don't know." "Because I probably agree with you." "It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live.