Quotes About Mystery

When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no time to ask anyone else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means comforting.

The man under the hedge, sir. He is a magician. Did you never hear that if you wake a magician before his time, you risk bringing his dreams out of his head into the world?

I no longer feel quite so alarmed when a nonsensical word in my Journal gives rise to a mental image that I cannot account for. Do not be anxious, I tell Myself. It is the House. It is the House enlarging your understanding.

Chaston wrote that a great many fairies harboured a vague sense of having been treated badly by the English. Though it was a mystery to Chaston — as it is to me — why they should have thought so. In the houses of the great English magicians fairies were the first among the servants and sat in the best places after the magician and his lady.

Let us examine the case of rings. Rings have long been considered peculiarly suitable for this sort of magic by virtue of their small size.

Strange finished: "People have such odd notions about magicians. They wanted me to tell them about vampyres.

Oh, quite!" agreed Byron. "I was with him again a few hours ago and could not get him to talk of any thing but his dead wife and how she is not really dead, but merely enchanted. And now he shrouds himself in Darkness and works Black Magic! There is something rather admirable in all this, do you not agree?

He walked around Mr Norrell slowly, considering him from every angle. Then, most disconcerting of all, he plucked Mr Norrell's wig from his head and looked underneath, as if Mr Norrell were a cooking pot on the fire and he wished to know what was for dinner.

Sir Doctor, we esteem very much the Hexenmeister of the Great Vellinton.

There was no one there. Which is to say there was someone there. Miss Wintertowne lay upon the bed, but it would have puzzled philosophy to say now whether she were someone or no one at all. They

In the fairy's song the earth recognized the names by which it called itself.

The box was small and oblong and apparently made of silver and porcelain. It was a beautiful shade of blue, but then not exactly blue, it was more like lilac. But then, not exactly lilac either, since it had a tinge of grey in it. To be more precise, it was the color of heartache.

If magic does not have friends in Yorkshire where may we find them?

Why did you think he described the other world—the one he said he went to most often—as a labyrinth?' Ketterley shrugged. 'A vision of cosmic grandeur, I suppose. A symbol of the mingled glory and horror of existence. No one gets out alive.

There are some things which have no business being put into books for all the world to read.

La magia no es respetable, caballero. No es... —buscó la palabra— seria. El gobierno no puede involucrarse en esas cosas.

Nan told me Clegg had been hanged for stealing a book, but the charge Robert Findhelm brought against him was not theft. The charge Findhelm brought against him was book-murder.

Both had indulged in, if not Black Magic, then certainly magic of a darker hue than seemed desirable or legitimate.

He had the odd idea that, though only a whisper, it could have passed through stone or iron or brass. It could have spoken to you from a thousand feet beneath the earth and you would have still heard it. It could have shattered precious stones and brought on madness.

Show me the labyrinth.' 'Gladly. What would you like to see?' 'I don't know', she said. 'Whatever you want to show me. Whatever's most beautiful.' Of course, what I really wanted to show her was everything, but that was impossible.

Sir, please do not do that,' I said. 'The Other says that 16 is a malevolent person.' 'Malevolent? I wouldn't say so. No more than most people.

Mystery of the people connected to Arne-Sayles who disappeared: Maurizio Giussani, Stanley Ovenden, Sylvia D'Agostino. (This is a strong pull for readers and therefore a definite pro. Unless I disappear myself, in which case, con.)

I went to the North-Eastern Corner and climbed up to the Statue of an Angel caught on a Rose Bush. I fetched out my brown leather messenger bag. I took all of my Journals out of it. There were nine of them. Just nine. I did not find twenty others that I had inexplicably overlooked until this moment.

So this, as far as I can tell, is what the birds told me. A message from afar. Obscure Writing. Innocence eroded.