Quotes About Mystery

Muscat is like a mind-altering drug. A stroll in its streets is like getting drunk for the first time

Crime writers, I've noticed, can be jumpy. They live in a world where there are murderers on the loose and they haven't been caught yet!

You spill a lot of beans in historical fiction. Crime fiction is about spilling no beans at all. You spill the least beans you possibly can. So because I had already written historical fiction before I was really good at the spilling beans section, but the new skill I had to learn when I was writing Brighton Belle was difficult. I had to avoid the equivalent of shouting, "this character's a murderer! Look who did it!.

Afternoon drinkers shifted in the gloom as if they sensed new blood.

Mirabelle was always an enigma, and he had the sense that if he pushed her, she'd bolt.

Mirabelle? Mirabelle Bevan? Well, I'll be blowed!" Mirabelle started, almost spilling her drink. It took her a moment to realize who the handsome man was, now his hair was greying at the edges and he was out of uniform. Puffing laconically on a cigarette, martini in hand, he wore a lounge suit and an understated silk tie with a discreet regimental insignia woven into the fabric. "Eddie," she smiled. "What are you doing here?

Can I ever know you Or you know me?

I know the stars by their names, Aldebaran, Altair, And I know the path they take Up heaven's broad blue stair. I know secrets of men By the look of their eyes, Their gray thoughts, their strange thoughts Have made me sad and wise. But your eyes are dark to me Though they seem to call and call– I cannot tell if you love me Or do not love me at all. I know many things, But the years come and go, I shall die not knowing The thing I long to know.

Your eyes drink of me, Love makes them shine, Your eyes that lean So close to mine. We have long been lovers, We know the range Of each other's moods And how they change; But when we look At each other so Then we feel How little we know; The spirit eludes us, Timid and free– Can I ever know you Or you know me?

like story itself, worship works: it offers experiences of transcendence and timelessness, resonance and wonder, intimacy and identity, mystery and enchantment.

One major difference between imagination and reason is that imagination often operates beneath the surface of analytical thought. Here I can't help thinking of Sherlock Holmes, musically brooding with his violin till the solution to the mystery presents itself.

Story affirms that not everything in the universe can or must be explained propositionally; the loose ends of story aren't always neatly tied together, because neither are the loose ends of our lives. "Life can bear only so much reality," says poet and pastor Calvin Miller.

The more I look into this issue, the more I'm convinced that the imagination is this mysterious thread: specifically, the imagination "baptized" and "sanctified" by the Holy Spirit.

can't decide if it's pretty or creepy, which, come to think of it, is about the same way I feel about you.

It takes me less than a minute to pick a pin-tumbler lock, but in that minute, anyone could wander into the hallway and say, "Sky, are you picking the lock on your mother's office?" Dad. I swear I have the nosiest family of all time. First Charles, now Dad. Couldn't anyone just mind their own business while I skulked around suspiciously?

The circumstances of our meeting. I was wounded, my eyes were bandaged, and she saved my life. But most curious, ridiculous, really, if examined logically, is the fact that though I never actually saw the woman, I fell in love with her.

The problem of Eternity, of which the face of the Sphinx speaks, takes us into the realm of the impossible. Even the problem of Time is simple in comparison with the problem of Eternity.

But time does not disclose its secrets to humankind, and the possible turned impossible.

For me, time is the greatest mystery of all. The fact is that we're dreaming all the time. That's what really gets me. We have a fathomless lake of unconsciousness just beneath our skulls.

Reality lies far beyond space and time, and I need to know why.

For what is time? ... Who can even in thought comprehend it, so as to utter a word about it? ... If no one asks me, I know: If I wish to explain it to one that asketh, I know not.

time never stops, but does it end? and how many livesbefore take-off, before we find ourselves beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold?

I can't imagine what possessed you to propose to me." "Well that will give you something to puzzle over any time you can't sleep.

Every period of time is a sphinx that throws itself into the abyss as soon as its riddle has been solved.