Quotes About Secrecy

Nem sempre podemos enxergar o que os outros não querem que a gente veja. Principalmente quando se esforçam tanto para esconder.

I'm Harry Bushman.

It is not the story I know or the story you tell me that matters; it is what I already know, what I don't want to hear you say. Let it exist this way, concealed; let me always be embarrassed, knowing that you know that I know but pretend not to know.

know, you'll say anything is possible. But don't you think the polis would have been all over him? There'd have been search parties and petitions and pictures on lamp-posts and appeals and T-shirts and so on and so forth? A beautiful young mother disappears?' 'Mrs Murray reckons it was hushed up.' 'Mrs Murray reckons 9/11 was done by lizards.

Can you also write down that under no circumstances can either of us tell anyone the truth?" I ask him. "The first rule of Fight Club," Peter says knowingly. "I've never seen that movie." "Of course you haven't," he says, and I make a face at him. Also: mental note, watch Fight Club.

But I sure as heck won't admit any of that to Mark. I'll probably be dining on Extra Crunchy Jif tonight, but at least I won't have shamed my mama. Not that she would even be ashamed, but I know for a fact that she doesn't like the neighborhood knowing our family business.

I think you're very special. I think you are probably one of the most special people at our school, and I wish more people knew that about you. Or maybe I don't, because sometimes it's nice to be the only one who knows something.

You're just so mysterious. I hardly know a things about you. The things I know are so unsubstantial, so unsatisfying, like that you eat a chicken sandwich every day at lunch, and you're on the golf team. I guess the one remotely real thing I know about you is you're a good writer, which must mean you have deep reserves of emotion.

You're just so mysterious. I hardly know a thing about you. The things I know are so unsubstantial, so unsatisfying, like that you eat a chicken sandwich every day at lunch, and you're on the golf team. I guess the one remotely real thing I know about you is you're a good writer, which must mean you have deep reserves of emotion.

Do you have a secret life? This is what she asks all her friends.

The wife has begun planning a secret life. In it, she is an art monster. She puts on yoga pants and says she is going to yoga, then pulls off onto a country lane and writes in tiny cramped writing on a grocery list She thinks she should go off her meds maybe so as to write more fluidly. Possibly this is not a good idea. But only possibly.

Don't look," he says. "I'm inventing this. No one will ever know what I have done except me.

I know there's something about me you want. I can tell. You go all rigid when I'm around." "Let's do it. Right now. Take off the masks. No Secret." "What is your relationship to the Falcone crime organization?" "Happy Valentine's Day. Your Loss.

Secrecy is an instrument of conspiracy; it ought not, therefore, to be the system of a regular government.

Secrecy, being an instrument of conspiracy, ought never to be the system of a regular government.

Secrecy is the chastity of friendship.

Everybody lies about sex. People lie during sex. If it weren't for lies, there'd be no sex.

La locura de los años mozos, nos abrumaba por aquellos días, escondidos en habitaciones de hotel, envueltos en el sudor de otros amantes.

The nature of the game as it is played is such that the public should realize that the truth cannot be told by the few who know.

When I asked my father whether he thought that it was possible that his mother was raped behind that closed door, he said, "She had washer-woman knees. No one could possibly think of her as a sexual object. Besides," he explained, "she would have told my sisters, and they would have told me." I am not so sure. Maybe someone needed to ask her. Someone needed to want to know, to be able to hear the answer.

The more "normal" the person seems, the sicker she probably is.

Ich habe geweint, weil ich dich liebhabe. Aber dass ich dich liebhabe, das ist meine Sache, hörst du? Und es geht dich nichts an.

There is nothing he likes more than just hearing about it. I realize he does not know that a man cannot talk of such things; I would do it willingly, but it is too dangerous for me to put these things into words. I am afraid they might then become gigantic and I be no longer able to master them. What would become of us if everything that happens out there were quite clear to us?

Boswell and Thompson write, "Every night the rooms on the two upper floors of the Castle were filled to overflowing. Holmes reluctantly accommodated a few men as paying guests, but catered primarily to women—preferably young and pretty ones of apparent means, whose homes were distant from Chicago and who had no one close to them who might make inquiry if they did not soon return. Many never went home. Many, indeed, never emerged from the castle, having once entered it