Quotes About Mystery

You're something between a dream and a miracle.

"Guess now who holds thee?"—"Death," I said. But thereThe silver answer rang—"Not Death, but Love."

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

I heard of the Reverend somebody Stoddart gravely proposing 'Poetry for the Million' to his audience; he assuring them that 'poets made a mystery of their art,' but that in fact nothing except an English grammar, and a rhyming dictionary, and some instruction about counting on the fingers, was necessary in order to make a poet of any man! This is a fact. And to this extent has the art, once called divine, been desecrated among the educated classes of our country.

The words were low, more shape than breath.

Spooky," I whispered under my breath, and wondered if the last thing I ever said was going to be a not-very-funny physics joke.

It's comforting when God lets you get away with something once in a while. And a little unnerving. You start to wonder what he's got set up for you next and why he's softening you up, like.

A world of complexity in that syllable.

A barn owl was perched atop the refrigerator.

After thousands of years, the ray-gun reached Earth. It fell from the sky like a meteor; it grew hot enough to glow, but it didn't burn up. The ray-gun fell at night during a blizzard. Traveling thousands of miles an hour, the ray-gun plunged deep into snow-covered woods. The snow melted so quickly that it burst into steam. The blizzard continued, unaffected. Some things can't be harmed, even by ray-guns.

All iron comes from stars," Seeker replied, her hand still not quite brushing the hilt of the blade. "It's the last element they can burn before they go nova. Iron's the skeletons of stars, and it's what makes our blood red. I

The only God is in the numbers and the fire; in the equations and the furnace

The collective resources of an authoress, a sorceress, and a wampyr and his valet are not to be underestimated.

A dark-haired young woman in bright sunflower barrettes brushed by Matthew; undressing him with a look that he profoundly ignored, though he wouldn't have if he'd felt the fey iciness that a very particular, very exhausting sort of spell cloaked from both him and Kit.

Eddies of Magi collected in the corners, rejoined the spiral when there was a gap.

She was Alasdair Conn's oldest daughter, the Princess of the Jacob's Ladder. She was both fierce and beautiful, and why she'd chosen him, he'd never know.

He ducked his head and kissed the tattoo of a sorcerer, nestled just between her breasts.

Good thing for me you're not a murderer." I smiled. "I could learn.

Unhelmed by her remote masters, she limped along the beach, dragging one fused limb.

Sometimes, even he found his program overly Gothic.

Kit hesitated in the half-crumbled archway, the torches failing to illuminate the darkness beyond.

Baines came up behind him, a hulking form, breathing softly. He smelled of soap and wine and rosewater and lightly of fresh sweat.

There," Murchaud said, tapping the cool surface the Darkling Glass. "There's is your cellar, Master Poet, and there is your oubliette." "Not mine, surely.

What's the symbolic association between a beast killed by a silver bullet and the moon?