Quotes About Mystery

My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am eighteen years old, and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any luck at all, I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had. I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise. I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cup mushroom. Everyone else in our family is dead.

I can't help it when people are frightened," says Merricat. "I always want to frighten them more.

I'm going to put death in all their food and watch them die.

Crystal shoes And a mare to ride on, A milk white mare, And a silver woven in my hair.

And Anwin said, "It turned out just as an enchantment should." "But Anwin, it wasn't an enchantment really, it just—" "Yes, child, it was the greatest enchantment of all." He winked at the prince. "Gillie understood all along what the enchantment was.

Who could guess he'd have a tooth pulled by Shmelke the healer and lie down the next morning and die? It's as my mother says: "Tomorrow is another day—but whose?

There's an old saying, you know, that if you scratch a secret, you'll find a thief.

This is the mystery. When you understand one thing through and through, you understand everything. When you try to understand everything, you will not understand anything. The best way is to understand yourself, and then you will understand everything. So when you try hard to make your own way, you will help others, and you will be helped by others. Before you make your own way you cannot help anyone, and no one can help you. To

Only the spoon knows what is stirring in the pot.

A Conspiracy is like an Iceberg........there is a lot more to it than what meets the eye

All cities have a certain fascination that is lost with too intimate a knowledge.

Life is like a novel. It's filled with suspense. You have no idea what is going to happen until you turn the page.

Perhaps the only misplaced curiosity is that which persists in trying to find out here, on this side of death, what lies beyond the grave.

Nicht in dem Zirkel des natürliches Lebens bewegt sich die Vernunft . Ihr geht um die Einsetzung der Wahrheit in der Welt. Vorgeträumt ist ihr Reich in den echten Märchen , die keine Wundergeschichten sind, sondern die wunderbare Ankunft der Gerechtigkeit meinen.

All this, I suspect, has been little more than the operation known as the pilgrimage from the cradle to the grave, but I have had a comfortable feeling that, however ordinary my enterprises may have been, they had at any rate the advantage of containing, for me, an element of sustained unfamiliarity. I am one of those persons who begin life by exclaiming they've "never seen anything like this before" and die in the hope that they may say the same of heaven.

Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire: Why did he do it?… Starlight overhead— Blank stars. I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead.

The sexual life of adult women is a "dark continent" for psychology.

The great question which I have not been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is What does a woman want

She walked as if through a forest. The pillars were furrowed like ancient trees, and into the woods the light seeped, colorful and as clear as song, through the stained-glass windows. High overhead animals and people frolicked in the stone foliage, and angels played their instruments. At an even higher, more dizzying height, the vaults of the ceiling arched upward, lifting the church toward God ... The song cut through her like a blinding light. Now she saw how deep in the dust she lay.

I always tell my writing students that every good piece of writing begins with both a mystery and a love story. And that every single sentence must be a poem. And that economy is the key to all good writing. And that every character has to have a secret.

Maybe all the trees were God.--A Parchment of Leaves

Writing is a supernatural thing.

You will find that the dullest, most functionally illiterate mental mushroom has a very definite, very "scientific" view on one thing: the impossibility of any kind of psychic phenomena.

A woman plays the Northumberland pipes; from where I'm sitting, on a wall at the back, it looks like she's giving physiotherapy to a small marsupial wearing callipers and smoking a bong, but the sound is haunting and hypnotic, mournful and melodic at the same time, every note somehow harmonising with the low, droning purr.