Quotes About Mystery

He didn't move or discourage Archibald from kneading and clawing his right boot when the enormous Maine coon strolled in from the pantry. The animal was like black smoke with gold eyes. A furry mystic with large, tufted paws and ears. Legend and lore surrounded the cat. Some stories were amusing, some mere fantastic flights of fantasy, and others actually plausible.

I believed in immaculate conception and spontaneous combustion. I believed in aliens from outer space and vampires, prophecy, and the resurrection of the dead. I had deja vu many times each day. I was thirteen.

So, hey, you wanna meet me out in the shed later?" Finn asked, popping a pretzel into his mouth. "Oh, sure," Megan replied, flushing slightly. "What're you two doing in the shed together?" Evan asked, raising his eyebrows. Megan's flush deepened.

The past was nothing to her; offered no lesson which she was willing to heed. The future was a mystery which she never attempted to penetrate. The present alone was significant.

all the gods are the same unknowable mystery, just as each face of a jewel strikes light in a different direction

Maybe the spirits don't want to be quieted.

If you can explain magic, then it's not magic anymore.

Stories matter in an enchanted forest.

Magic is always impossible.... It begins with the impossible and ends with the impossible and is impossible in between. That is why it's magic.

I think fantasy is best described as a kind of fiction that evokes wonder, mystery or magic, a sense of possibility beyond the ordinary world in which we live, and yet which reflects and comments upon that known world.

She felt as if she had strayed into a fairy tale, as full of peril as of wonder, a place where anything could happen.

No story was just a story, though. It was a suitcase stuffed with secrets.

He had seen God in the night sky long before he understood its patterns.

If these artist were trying to convince me that the pursuit of love in the postdigital age was more exciting, more mysterious, more…. well, everything love should be, they'd failed.

All the actors I respect, especially old-Hollywood actors, the reason I think so many of them have had long careers is that there is a sort of mystery about them. You don't know what they do on Friday nights when they go home from work. You have no clue. You have this sort of fantasy about them.

pulled back in a fang-filled grin. Under

his shoulder and ducked into the cave. He called, "Honey, I'm home!" I crept closer to the mouth of the cave. A terrible damp smell came from inside. I took a last breath of fresh air and plunged in after Typhon. In the dim light I spied a second monster. She was big, but nowhere near Typhon's size.

Radium was a clever poison. It masked its way inside its victims' bones; it foxed the most experienced physicians. And like the expert serial killer it was, it had now evolved its modus operandi.

The colour of the magpie, her father was saying, was symbolic of creation. The void, the mystery of that which had not yet taken form. Black and white, he said. Presence and absence.

I want to watch you sleeping," he said. "Go to sleep." For a long time Stephen listened to Mina breathing. He turned in the chair to look out the window, pinching himself to stay awake. The moon was not out – the night was very dark. Much later the room behind him seemed to lighten. He opened the window to let the night in, to let what was inside get out. And then, slowly, he turned around to look at what was there. Mina is there. She is a vision.

Kate Saunders

My father, on the other hand, is a shadowy figure.

Perhaps this is the purpose of detective investigations, real and fictional -- to transform sensation, horror and grief into a puzzle, and then to solve the puzzle, to make it go away. 'The detective story,' observed Raymond Chandler in 1949, 'is a tragedy with a happy ending.' A storybook detective starts by confronting us with a murder and ends by absolving us of it. He clears us of guilt. He relieves us of uncertainty. He removes us from the presence of death.

He looked at the sky once more. Men had gone out there, he thought in wonder, and couldn't think why. Singly and in small groups they had gone into strange lands, across wide seas, had climbed mountains where no human foot had ever trod. And he couldn't think why they had done these things. What impulse had driven them from their own kind to perish alone, or among strangers.