Quotes About Mystery

Qué otra pasión me espera? ¿Será tranquila y pura? ¡¡Si mis dedos pudieran Deshojar a la luna!!

Baile La Carmen está bailando por las calles de Sevilla. Tiene blancos los cabellos y brillantes las pupilas. ¡Niñas, corred las cortinas! En su cabeza se enrosca una serpiente amarilla, y va soñando en el baile con galanes de otros días. ¡Niñas, corred las cortinas! Las calles están desiertas y en los fondos se adivinan, corazones andaluces buscando viejas espinas. ¡Niñas, corred las cortinas! * * * * *

El silencio redondo de la noche sobre el pentágrama del infinito.

ROMANCERO SONÁMBULO VERDE que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verdes ramas. El barco sobre la mar y el caballo en la montaña. Con la sombra en la cintura, ella sueña en su baranda verde carne, pelo verde, con ojos de fría plata. Verde que te quiero verde. Bajo la luna gitana, las cosas la están mirando y ella no puede mirarlas.

Siete gritos, siete sangres, siete dormideras dobles, quebraron opacas lunas en los oscuros salones.

Only mystery allows us to live, only mystery.

Opus Dei non est opus Dei.

Realmente ella era una persona muy equilibrada. (Aunque a veces, bajo las más grandes apariencias de equilibrio encontráramos las locuras más sorprendentes o los misterios más inescrutables.)

They fluttered and rustled ceaselessly through the air from all the tree-tops and branches. A delicate silvery sound was falling constantly to earth. It was wonderful to awaken amidst it, wonderful to fall asleep to this mysterious and melancholy whispering.

She blinked once, then twice, and yet again, sure what she viewed was just another part of this fantasy world that she had stepped into when her feet touched the green grass of Ireland.

Nothing is as it seems.

She stared at the castle. She had actually been summoned to a castle. A week before Christmas.

la natura, non l'uomo, sarebbe quindi responsabile di un cataclisma ancora pieno di enigmi agli occhi degli storici.

El resultado de la providencia divina y la libertad humana no es previsible ni programable.

Nature is parts without a whole.This is perhaps the mystery they speak of.

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.

Joyce saw perhaps what Wittgenstein felt—that 'Colours spur us to philosophize. [. . . They] seem to present us with a riddle, a riddle that stimulates us — not one that disturbs us.

Nonetheless innuendo and imperfectly definable actions hover over the actions of the hermit.

The 'wrong thing' happened, we are now told, during the 'dark flush of night' (527.07). A flush usually brings colour to cheeks, so a dark flush is a mild oxymoron, like a dark light, and is all the more suggestive, since the dark flush of night is probably an erotically charged flush.

I'd have thought any man might consider himself very fortunate to be loved by a lady who spoke the language of goddesses and could find her way amongst the stars.

What would the limitations on her new-found charm be? Was there an expiry date? She couldn't even revisit how the hell was this happening? It was too much to get her head around. It did not bear scrutiny.

The pyramid is opening up" "Which one?" " The one with the ever widening hole in it".

Your talk," I said, "is surely the handiwork of wisdom because not one word of it do I understand.

It is nearly an insoluble pancake, a conundrum of inscrutable potentialities, a snorter.