Quotes About Mystery

Last days, last things, loom on: I write / to astonish myself. So much for all / plain speaking...

This half-puzzled, awkward surprise is yours; you cannot hear me or quite make me out. Formalities preserve us: perhaps I too am a shade.

Can't I just say it's magic? - Charlie Blue

He was a great something, but a great what?

When sex was something godlike, Lust was the profane curiosity that killed many a straying cat. Now, having removed mystery, Lust is less a long-standing, overpowering yearning, more a sudden craving of the appetite. Less quest, more impulse buy.

I want night, deep ambrosial night.

Man is an abyss, and I turn giddy when I look down into it.

After all, is our idea of God anything more than personified incomprehensibility? {Said in a letter to Voltaire }

Is our conception of God anything more than personified incomprehensibility?

One of our forefathers must have read a forbidden book.

The thrush called strangeness into the sunset.

Shepherds buried the sun in the naked forest. With a net of hair A fisherman hauled the moon from the icy pond. The pale man dwells In a blue crystal, his cheek at rest against his stars, Or he bows his head in crimson sleep. But the black flight of birds always touches The watcher, the holiness of blue flowers; The nearby silence thinks forgotten things, extinguished angels. Again the brow turns night in moonlit stone; A radiant youth, The sister appears in autumn and black putrefaction.

Our silence is a black cavern.

On silver soles I climbed down the thorny stairs, and I walked into the white-washed room. A light burned there silently, and without speaking I wrapped my head in purple linen; and the earth threw out a childlike body, a creature of the moon, that slowly stepped out of the darkness of my shadow, with broken arms, stony waterfalls sank away, fluffy snow

Vision of the night: toads plunge from silver waters.

Spiders seek my heart. There is a light that dies in my mouth. At night I found myself upon a heath, Thick with filth and stardust. In the hazel copse Crystal angels have chimed again.

A black cavern is our silence.

Too fair to worship, too divine to love.

George Anderson, We Don't Die.

One thing about golf is you don't know why you play bad and why you play good.

I love this simple maiden, She grows upon me more and more, And--ask the moon who 't was that kissed, Last night upon the shore!

Globular clusters!

We want to decipher skies and paintings, go behind these starry backgrounds or these painted canvases and, like kids trying to find a gap in a fence, try to look through the cracks in the world.

Popular Christianity has for its emblem a gibbet, for its chief sensation a sanginary execution after torture, for its central mystery is an insane vengeance bought off by a trumpery expiation. But there is a nobler and profounder Christianity which affirms the sacred mystery of equality and forbids the glaring futility and folly of vengeance.