Quotes About Mystery

His name was Cal, which I thought must be short for something, but I couldn't think what it would be short for, unless it was California.

Then the worst happened, that big, dark, hunky boy, the only one there huge enough for me, who had been hunching around over women, and whose name I had asked the minute I had come into the room, but no one told me, came over and was looking hard in my eyes and it was Ted Hughes.

bare trees with black clots of rookeries

You know, he says, you have met a lot of boys like me and I have never before met any body like you. You've got it. What have I got? I don't know. You've just got it.

We walk on air, Watson. There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus. There is only a crow in a tree. Make notes.

Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you?

Sometimes when she looked at him her face was relaxed and her eyes clear and Sonny had no idea what she was thinking. He never asked because he believed that privacy was the nest for secrets and that secrets were the center of the soul.

waited for the flash of green, which I have never seen but some people say exists.

I came to the conclusion seeing also that the 'influence' of Brahmin and Buddhist thought upon Europe, as in Schopenhauer, Hartmann, and Deussen, had largely been through romantic misunderstanding that my only hope of really penetrating to the heart of that mystery would lie in forgetting how to think and feel as an American or a European: which, for practical as well as sentimental reasons, I did not wish to do.

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant

In the dust of Her feet are the hosts of heaven/and Her star sequined hair/ Is crowned with a coven of six and seven/Blue suns burning there. —VICTOR H. ANDERSON (IN HIS POEM "QUAKORALINA," IN Thorns of the Blood Rose)

The River Unceasing appears to be just a line of water, flowing from here to there. Yet he is more. Much more. He is all that he is—including whatever hides beneath the surface.

We ask only to be reassured About the noises in the cellar And the window that should not have been open

The name that no human research can discover-- But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

Quick now, here, now, always- A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.

I do not know much about gods;but I think that the river is a strong brown god-sullen, untamed and intractable . . .

But above and beyond there's still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover-- But the cat himself knows, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

Destiny waits in the hand of god, shaping the still unshapen..

The detective story, as created by Poe, is something as specialised and as intellectual as a chess problem, whereas the best English detective fiction has relied less on the beauty of the mathematical problem and much more on the intangible human element. [...] In The Moonstone the mystery is finally solved, not altogether by human ingenuity, but largely by accident. Since Collins, the best heroes of English detective fiction have been, like Sergeant Cuff, fallible.

We see the light but see not whence it comes. O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!

What is that noise?

I don't know much about gods, but I think the river is a strong, brown god

Who is the third who walks always beside you? 360 When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you?

Who is the third who walks always beside you?