Quotes About Mystery

How to live as divided cells — voilà! Something always eludes the scientists, the poets, the stargazers, the biologists, the anthropologists. Something eludes the informers, detectives, police, lawyers. It is the dream. And what lies in the deformed mirrors of the dream and haunts our sleep is the secret of everything.

The unknown is my compass

Why does a gesture, a walk, stir your blood? What a mystery this is, desire. The love sickness, the sensitivity, the obsession, the flutter of the heart, the ebb and flow of the blood. There is no drug and no alcohol to equal it.

I gave away my mystery, knowing I shouldn't, yet incapable of anything else.

Such obsession with reaching the moon, because they had failed to reach each other, each a solitary planet! In silence, in mystery, a human being was formed, was exploded, was struck by other passing bodies, was burned, was deserted. And then it was born in the molten love of the one who cared.

I am enmeshed in my lies, and I want absolution. I cannot tell the truth because I have felt the heads of men in my womb. The truth would be death-dealing and I prefer fairytales. I am wrapped in lies which do not penetrate my soul. As if the lies I tell were like costumes. The shell of mystery can break and grow again over night. But the moment I step into the cavern of my lies I drop into the darkness. I see a face which stares at me like a cross-eyed man.

I love my mystery, I love the abstract, fuyant world I live in as long as I don't begin my work, the forcing out of delicate, profound, vague, obscure, voluptuously wordless sensations into something you can seize on—perhaps never.

And what a joy again when, in the center of the madness, you say unexpectedly something very deep, the sudden illuminations of living, the lantern never quite blown out—I love that too.

People feel that in her, the nonhuman. People are afraid of her. Something in her inspires a nonhuman attachment. Sur elle, the human feelings seem to slip, they glisser—

She wanted to be courted with mysterious language.

Unamuno says: "The prehistoric is unconsciousness; it is the void." (This of course is literature, but it sounds convincing.) Nobody knows anything about the prehistoric!

Yes, Anaïs, I want to demask you. I am too gallant with you. I want to look at you long and ardently, pick up your dress, fondle you, examine you. Do you know I have scarcely looked at you? There is still too much sacredness clinging to you.

Perfidious, infinitely desirable, drawing me to her as towards death.

Perhaps there is nothing at all, perhaps the mystery is that there is no mystery at all. Perhaps she is empty, and there is no June at all." "But, Henry, how can an empty woman have such a vivid presence, how can an empty woman cause insomnia, awaken so many curiosities? How could an empty woman cause other women to take flight, as you tell me, abdicating immediately before her?

He overlooks the voluptuousness of half-knowledge, half-possession, of leaning over the edge dangerously, for no specific climax.

A creation is not a thing of the moment, instantaneously formed, but very slowly and gradually shaped out of infinitesimally small pieces. We think it is instantaneous because the process is more or less hidden and apparently mysterious. Here at last is the link between art and life which I have been seeking.

You like feeling lost. You enjoy being baffled. It gives you a false sense of mental energy, activity.

I am a child compared to you, because when the womb in you speaks it enfolds everything—it is the darkness I adore.

Cabello rubio, tez pálida, demoníacas cejas angulares, una sonrisa cruel con un hoyuelo cautivador. Pérfida, infinitamente deseable, me atraía hacia ella como hacia la muerte.

But in life, we cannot always obtain from the lover a full image or revelation of what he sees in his loved one. It remains hidden from our eyes. Because love not only can detect a potential, aun unborn personality, a buried one, a disguised one, but also bring it into reality.

I find these nobodies so much more interesting than the celebrated people. Why is that?

Every line is pregnant with meaning and however much the meaning is ransacked, the riddle will remain because only you can explain it, and this riddle is your last triumph—you will never reveal it.

That means for death, for the final catastrophe in which everything will be buried, because in the dissolution of death a flame is born whose secret is imparted only to those who are then and forever escaping the mould. The secret is incommunicable; it is that last knowledge to which we are driven by our most vital forces, the mystery which makes death not only supportable but desired. Etc. etc.

Elena) Poderia o amor tornar-se um fogo que não queima, como as chamas dos homens santos da Índia? Estaria ela aprendendo a caminhar de modo mágico sobre carvões em brasa?