Quotes About Secrecy

Knowledge is power. Information is power. The secreting or hoarding of knowledge or information may be an act of tyranny camouflaged as humility.

There are more colors in the crayon box than black and white, hotshot," she countered. "Everyone's got their own agenda, and I do mean everyone. And it's rarely the one they let you see. But

Someone's going to have to wipe up the floor…" "Hmm." "Luke Riordan, you're in a bubble bath." "Yeah," he said, breathless. "What would people think? Big, tough, womanizing Black Hawk pilot, in a bubble bath." "You better not tell or you'll be punished," he said, still catching his breath. She giggled again. "That might be interesting. I never know what you'll come up with next." Late

even further, and I shivered inside my wool coat as I trudged back to my car, two grocery bags in hand. I wanted to go home, but I still had the crushed vials. Where could you dispose of broken glass and no one would notice?

Assuming I keep out of sight long enough, my brother, the state's most wanted killer, will find me.

voice in this? For God's sake, Chase—" She caught the warning look in Chase's eye and stopped cold. This wasn't the time or place. He seemed to be silently warning her, telling her not to make a scene in front of the detective. "Baldwin was interested. That's all." "And so you met at the mill and then what?" Wilson asked. "We'd just left the office and were walking up the ramp to building

What's her name? None of your business. That can't possibly be her name.

She suspects her husband, Jake, might be gay. Did you suggest she ask him? Mom laughed. Of course not. Business is slow.

History taught that the cover-up was always worse than the crime.

War welcomed and concealed the most heinous of crimes

To protect my heart, this is what I would have to do with Snow Flower. I couldn't let anyone know I was dying from anguish that she no longer loved me.

Any daughter-in-law who lets the real truth of her life become public brings shame to both her natal and husband's families, which, as you know, is why I have waited until they were all dead to write my story.

With her bold act, I realized the true purpose of our secret writing. It was not to compose girlish notes to each other or even to introduce us to the women in our husbands' families. It was to give us a voice.

We count so much on politeness, those of us who are hiding things. We count on people not staring too long, or asking too many questions.

I try to imagine keeping something like that a secret for my whole life. It would be like always wearing a mask over your face, which everyone believed was the real you. You would be the only person who knew it wasn't--and who knew that you could never take it off.

Marlene had admitted in class that her boyfriend, a ninth-grader in another town, shoplifted all the time and that although she didn't like it much, she wouldn't dream of reporting him.

It was one more time, Annemarie realized, when they protected one another by not telling. If Mr. Rosen knew, he might be frightened. If Mr. Rosen knew, he might be in danger. So he hadn't asked. And Peter hadn't explained.

Danes had on their windows; the entire city had to be completely darkened at night. In a nearby tree, a bird was singing; otherwise it was quiet. It was the last night of September. "Go, now, and get into your nightgowns. It will be a long night." Annemarie and Ellen got to their feet. Papa suddenly crossed the room and put his arms around them both. He kissed the top of each head: Annemarie's blond one, which reached to his shoulder, and Ellen's dark hair, the thick

this talk will be a private one with Jonas.

It was one more time, Annemarie realized, when they protected one another by not telling.

But have you ever overheard two women discussing men? Men are crude liars, comparing their drabs, but women - I'd rather have [an] anatomist dissect me alive than to listen to the things the ladies say about us when they think they are alone.

If only one didn't know that at the secret heart of all such organizations, corporations and governments alike, it still came down to a finite number of fallible people talking to each other . . . ?

Why are you wearing slippers?" She stared down at her feet. "I'm—sorry, Pilot Officer Mayhew. That's classified.

What, everyone knows of Royesse Iselle's clever secretary, the man who keeps his own counsel—and hers—the Bastion of Gotorget—utterly indifferent to wealth—" "No, I'm not," Cazaril assured him earnestly. "I just dress badly. I quite like wealth.