Quotes About Mystery

There are many times when God's purpose and plan aren't clear. I may never know why some bad things happen, but I trust God does. That allows me to accept the bad as well as the good, even when I don't understand it.

Once in an endless meadow, just able to peer through the tawny haze of the grass tops, the child who was myself had watched a young fox catching mice, an elegant newly minted fox, straight from the hand of God, brilliantly ruddy, with black stockings and a white-tipped brush. The fox heard and turned. I saw its intense vivid mask, its liquid amber eyes. Then it was gone. An image of such beauty and such mysterious sense. The child wept and knew himself an artist.

One can be too ingenious in trying to search out the truth. Sometimes one must simply respect its veiled face. Of course this is a love story.

Things, things, they outlive us and go to scenes that we know nothing of.

All dreams are sinister.

I love you. I saw you that night in the garden, and I knew you were magic like in dreams.

Sex comes to most of us with a twist.

But whatever she was I loved her and was committed to her and had always been, here and out beyond the stars, those stars behind stars behind stars which I had seen that night when I lay on the rocks and the golden sky slowly turned the universe inside out.

It might be most dramatically effective to begin the tale at the moment when Arnold Baffin rang me up and said, Bradley, could you come round here please, I think I have just killed my wife.

I have always attributed a great importance to eyes. How mysteriously expressive those damp orbs can be; the eyeball does not change and yet it is the window of the soul. And colour in eyes is, in its nature and inherence, quite unlike colour in any other substance. Mr Osmand had grey eyes, but his eyes were hard and speckled like Aberdeen granite, while Tommy's were clear and empty like light smoke.

How mysterious night and day are, this endless procession off dark and light....I think such sad thoughts - of people in trouble and afraid, all lonely people all prisoners.

Of course one never knows about other people's loves, and I would certainly never know about James's.

I must proceed to my next mystery and for the moment forget this one completely.

Who is one's first love? Who indeed.

This is the fundamental wisdom that suffuses Iris Murdoch's fiction from Under the Net onward. True virtue, true goodness, true love flow from respect for the strangeness and the mystery of other people and the world that surrounds us. They flow from the refusal to inflict our own designs on them, to deny their innate elusiveness, their impenetrable quiddity.

I have battered destructively and in vain upon the mystery of someone else's life and must cease at last.

There was a shadowy light, not exactly twilight, but an uncertain vivid yet hazy illumination, wherein people walked like spirits, bathed in light and not revealed.

Magic besieges the religious life and men yearn to speak the language of angels.

But suicides are mysterious, and one must respect their mystery.

Why does one never see dead birds? How can they all hide to die?

solitary sinister men with terrible secrets — of whom Clement now and forever after must be one.

Comenzar una novela es como abrir la puerta o un paisaje neblinoso; ves muy poco, pero hueles la tierra y sientes el soplo del viento.

the superiority of some infinite reserve and the mystery of some infinite sadness.

Christ, I loathe women. But I can't get going on the other tack either. And you needn't blush and look coy, I never fancied you. I know what you got up to with Fritzie Eitel! No—but I'd have had old Wilfred if he'd asked me. What did old Wilfred do for sex? No one ever knew. Perhaps he didn't have any, and if so good on him.