Quotes About Mystery

Theological formation is the gradual and often painful discovery of God's incomprehensibility. You can be competent in many things, but you cannot be competent in God.

What sort of philosophers are we, who know absolutely nothing of the origin and destiny of cats?

Night is certainly more novel and less profane than day.

This whole earth in which we inhabit is but a point is space.

Talk of mysteries! — Think of our life in nature, — daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, — rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! The actual world! The common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? Where are we?

What demon possessed me that I behaved so well?

What demon possessed me that I behaved so well? You may say the wisest thing you can old man, — you who have lived seventy years, not without honor of a kind,– I hear an irresistible voice which invites me away from all that.

Live free, child of the mist—and with respect to knowledge we are all children of the mist.

I cannot tell you what I am, more than a ray of the summer's sun. What I am I am, and say not. Being is the great explainer.

Nature is a personality so vast and universal that we have never seen one of her features.

I rejoice that there are owls. Let them do the idiotic and maniacal hooting for men. It is a sound admirably suited to swamps and twilight woods which no day illustrates, suggesting a vast and undeveloped nature which men have not recognized.

The wind that blows Is all that any body knows.

Blue is light seen through a veil.

I rejoice that there are owls.

The book exists for us, perchance, which will explain our miracles and reveal new ones.

men are strangely inclined to worship what they do not understand. A grand secret, upon which several imposers on mankind have totally relied for the success of their frauds.

No, no—there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don't know what I don't see—what I don't fear!

The women one meets - what are they but books one has already read? You're a library of the unknown, the uncut. Upon my word I've a subscription.

A swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads that one can't see--that's my idea of happiness.

Everything had something behind it: life was like a long corridor with rows of closed doors.

She is like a revolving lighthouse; pitch darkness alternating with a dazzling brilliancy!

They strike one, above all, as giving no account of themselves in any terms already consecrated by human use; to this inarticulate state they probably form, collectively, the most unprecedented of monuments; abysmal the mystery of what they think, what they feel, what they want, what they suppose themselves to be saying.

The whole of anything, is never told.

She knew that this silent, motionless portal opened into the street; if the sidelights had not been filled with green paper, she might have looked out on the little brown stoop and the well-worn brick pavement. But she had no wish to look out, for this would have interfered with her theory that there was a strange, unseen place on the other side--a place which became, to the child's imagination, according to its different moods, a region of delight or terror.