Quotes About Mystery

Not how the world is, is the mystical, but that it is.

Siamo o non siamo su un'invisibile trottolina, cui fa da ferza un fil di sole, su un granellino di sabbia impazzito che gira e gira e gira, senza saper perché, senza pervenir mai a destino, come se ci provasse gusto a girar così, per farci sentire ora un po' più di caldo, ora un po' più di freddo, e per farci morire – spesso con la coscienza d'aver commesso una sequela di piccole sciocchezze – dopo cinquanta o sessanta giri?

Are we or are we not on an invisible spinning top, whipped by a thread of sunlight, on a grain of crazed sand which turns and turns without ever knowing why, without ever reaching a destination, as if it enjoyed turning like that, to make us feel a little colder or warmer, and make us die (often feeling that we have merely carried out a series of meaningless gestures) after fifty or sixty years?

Who wants an everyday path—paved and void of danger—when we can have beasts and shadows and secret flowers and unexpected visits from the feral wolf of our imaginations?

I am not suggesting that a bird, say, with her fleet heart, experiences more in a short life of three years than we do in that same period but that her actual perceived life may be longer than three years. The measure is mysterious; the time of the bird's life expands beyond our typical calculation in ways that we cannot understand, at least not yet. is it possible that some people, too, experience this time/space portal, allowing more experience to billow within and around them?

if you're the kind of person who wants to know what's at the end of the universe, what's at the edge of being...and comprehension settles on you that you'll never know, despair can well up.

That other people found a community easily struck him as mysterious; the city was a wide network of generic streets and buildings, among which small figures were suspended in casual segregation. The space between them was air and metal.

I'm so sorry.' It was very obvious Mrs Douglas was dead. She was dressed only in her nightgown; her eyes protruded

In her lifetime, Emily Dickinson had been called 'the myth'; when she died, Todd saw her disappear more deeply into her 'mystery'. Higginson introduced her to the public as a nunnish recluse who never thought of publication. He characterised her as 'whimsical', 'wayward', 'uneven' and 'exasperating'. Actually, the blueprint for this character goes back to the poet herself:

He was, and she had to swallow very hard to keep from choking, the most terribly beautiful man she had ever seen. He had a long, wicked scar that traveled from his temple down his cheek to the side of his chin and below his jaw. Somehow, though, it just didn't detract from his handsomeness, dark though that was. His face was all planes and angles, harsh even in the deepening gloom. His hair was dark and his eyes were full of cynicism.

I've discovered that half the people would love to go into space, and there's no need to explain it to them. The other half can't understand, and I couldn't explain it to them. If someone doesn't know why, I can't explain it.

With hands that shook, Omri probed into the depths of the chest till he found the box-within-a-box-within-a-box.

cupboard. The strange little key, which had been his great-grandmother's

Now he closed his eyes and unwished the test pass and wished instead that this little twisty key would turn Gillon's present into a secret cupboard.

Wait for it,' the single dash seems to whisper, with a twinkle if you're lucky.

Are you not the one who told me that she had to petition the king to get her husband to sleep with her? Aye,that is the gossip at court, but no one knows what she looks like save the king,and he refuses to discuss it. 'Sides, her husband died on the way home to perform his....er duty. 'Twas probably suicide, Amaury muttered grimly.

He must have made a deal with the devil to come back.

But what popped up was no girl.

Here! Aye, but where the hell is---? Oh. Claray peered over her shoulder to see the Wolf staring at her from some ten feet away. His gaze was fixed on her lower legs with a sort of heated interest that made her look down. It was only then that she realized that she was holding her skirts rather high. They were actually halfway between her knees and her nether region, leaving an indecent amount of leg on view.

She drawled, I think I'd really like to see that gun of yours later.

Where did your clothes go?

Much of life, you will never know what happened to you at all, let alone to anyone else.

Go the window: the street is empty. You may hear running footsteps, or a sigh. In a minute or two the whistles have moved away in the direction of the Tinmarket or the Margarethestrasse. Next day some minor prince is discovered in the gutter with his throat cut, and all you are left with is the impression of secret wars, lethal patience, an intelligent manouevring in the dark.

The true detective [...] starts in the center of the maze. Crimes make their way through to him. Never forget: you uncover your heart at the heart of it.