Quotes About Mystery

Life is a mysterious game: the only way to win is to surrender.

Why do two people fall in love? It's a mystery.

The baby, a girl, is born at 6:24 a.m. She weighs six pounds, ten ounces. The mother takes the baby in her arms and asks her, "Who are you, my little one?" And in response, this baby, who is Liz and not Liz at the same time, laughs.

But in my defense, I knew enough about her to know I wanted to know everything else; I knew as much about her as she wanted me to know; I knew as much about her as anyone ever knows about anyone. And isn't love just curiosity at the beginning anyway?

Time was mathematically explicable; it was the heart—the part of the brain represented by the heart—that was the mystery.

Always remember, mine Sadie: life is very long, unless it is not.

What makes a person want to shiver in a train station for nothing more than the promise of a secret image? But then, what makes a person drive down an unmarked road in the middle of the night? Maybe it was the willingness to play that hinted at a tender, eternally newborn part in all humans. Maybe it was the willingness to play that kept one from despair.

A maze," he would say, "is a video game distilled to its purest form.

He was twelve, on the verge of being more man than boy. Every day, Sam became more of a mystery to Anna, even his smells, once so familiar, were a mystery, and there was a feeling of mourning to this. Yet, still Sam knew with certainty that his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Whatever her sickness had been

Did you have a good time with Win?" Natty asked. "I'll tell you about it tomorrow." I lowered my voice. "He's still here." "Annie!" Her eyes grew wide and delighted. 'It's a long story and probably a lot less exciting than the one I suspect you're concocting, Natty. He's only using our couch.

LOCAL GIRL BACK FROM DEAD; CLAIMS DEATH IS CRUISE, NOT WHITE LIGHT, TUNNEL

TAMERLANE AND OTHER POEMS. BY A BOSTONIAN. Crayon marks scar the cover. Lambiase doesn't know what to make of it. His cop brain clicks in, formulating the following questions: (1) Is this A.J.'s stolen Tamerlane? (2) Why would Tamerlane be in Ismay's possession? (3) How did Tamerlane get covered in crayon and who did the coloring? Maya? (4) Why would Tamerlane be in a backpack with Maya's name on it?

I go to Marian Wallace's dorm room, and I throw the book on her bed. I tell her, 'Look, you can sell this. It's worth a lot of money.' And she looks at the book dubiously, and she says, 'Is it hot?' And I say, 'No, it belongs to Daniel, and he wants you to have it, but you can never say where it came from. Bring it to an auction house or a rare-books dealer. Claim you found it in a used-books bin somewhere.

A.J. piensa en qué parecido es todo el género policíaco. ¿Por qué un libro es diferente de cualquier otro? Son diferentes, concluye A.J., porque son. Tenemos que ver muchos por dentro. Tenemos que creer. Aceptamos llevarnos alguna decepción para que, de vez en cuando, algo nos entusiasme de verdad.

knows why she was here or who she came to see or why she decided to kill herself by swimming into the icy waters of the Alice Island Sound in December. That is to say, no one knows the specific reason. They know that Marian Wallace is black, that she is twenty-two years old, and that she had a twenty-five-month-old toddler.

Someone stole Tamerlane," A.J. says. "What's Tamerlane?" "It's a book. It's a very valuable book.

Staring into the half light, the queen struggles with wants and needs to which she can give no names. It is not the willow she desires, nor the rose. It is something else…something that eludes her.

The old magic is returning, the powers of notes and intervals falling easily beneath her fingers.

What kind of guitar would he make for this pretty harper with her sweet voice and stranger manners, who appeared so young but who seemed at times so old? It would have to glow with all the luster of her hair, and he knew he would have to give to it the feeling of ancient forests, of standing stones, and misty downs. Nothing else would be appropriate. Noth else would fit.

for the first time, in this unforeseen way, with half a house between them, the frigid star of the demimonde finally allowed a man to touch her.

He pulled back his hood, unveiling a face of burning, satanic, male beauty. Alice held her breath, enthralled, feeling the resounding slam of some fateful premonition. 'Lucien Knight.' One look erased any lingering doubt in her mind who he was. He had the bold, patrician features of a dashing adventurer and silver eyes that glittered like diamonds. The glossy jet of his hair set off his sun-bronzed complexion and the wicked, white gleam of his smile.

Do you know where she lives?" "Could get there blindfolded." "Did he just blush?" Talbert asked Marc as Lucien strode over to his black stallion and swung up into the saddle. "I heard that," he retorted.

Some things arrive on their own mysterious hour, on their own terms and not yours, to be seized or relinquished forever.