Mystery Quotes
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Many investigators feel uneasy stating in public that the origin of life is a mystery, even though behind closed doors they admit they are baffled.
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Knowledge is an island surrounded by a sea of mystery.
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Christian, Jew, Muslim, shaman, Zoroastrian, stone, ground, mountain, river, each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged
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It's a mystery to me; We have a greed, with which we have agreed. You think you have to want more than you need. Until you have it all, you won't be free.
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Men who “actively” appreciate and enjoy women, aren’t that common. Boys are raised to boycott the girls’ club and bond with each other. The “bromance” tradition is ancient and deep-dyed, a devotion to male friends that can be “wonderful, passing the love of women.” In the extreme, it tips over into misogyny. By contrast, ladies’ men like women inside and out and seek their companionship. Such gynephilia makes a man hum with charisma. It’s the mystery of connectivity. When someone empathizes and synchronizes with us, the effect is galvanic. Mirror neurons light up, and our bodies kick off opiate-like endorphins. We endow rapport artists with “chemistry”—incandescent sexiness.
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The nature of Christ's existence is mysterious, I admit; but this mystery meets the wants of man. Reject it, and the world is an inexplicable riddle; believe it, and the history of our race is satisfactorily explained.
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All is going on as it was wont. The waves are hoarse with repetition of their mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar and hover; the winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight; the white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away.
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I have looked farther into space than ever a human being did before me.
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I have always loved horror very much. I used to write stories for DC's House of Mystery. It was one of my first jobs writing for comics, and I loved it.
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Love is an energy, love is a mystery, love is meant to be true. Love is a part of me, love is the heart of me, love is the best thing we do.
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Voiceover work reminds me of old-time radio. When I was little I used to sneak and stay up at night and listen to Mystery Radio Theater - I loved all those old radio plays.
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God reveals himself to those who wait for that revelation, and who don't try to tear at the hem of a mystery, forcing disclosure.
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Forces of nature act in a mysterious manner. We can but solve the mystery by deducing the unknown result from the known results of similar events.
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If you love all things, you will also attain the divine mystery that is in all things. For then your ability to perceive the truth will grow every day, and your mind will open itself to an all-embracing love.
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It is sacrilege to attempt analysis of birth or love or death. Death and birth, the mysteries! Love, the revelation!
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There are some varieties of fiction that I never touch - mystery stories, for instance, which I abhor, and historical novels. I also detest the so-called "powerful" novel - full of commonplace obscenities and torrents of dialog.
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People love mystery, and that is why they love my paintings.
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The final mystery is oneself... Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul.
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The Palio is shrouded in mystery and secrecy, and the players can't discuss their devious schemes.
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The seed of mystery lies in muddy water. How can I perceive this mystery? Water becomes clear through stillness. How can I become still? By flowing with the stream.
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But the summits of poetry are mysteries; they are shiftingly veiled, and those who catch the glimpses see different aspects of the transcendental; but they have seen something, and they come down with the glory lingering on them.
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There is something to mystery. You make up this entire world that you fit into because of what the actual music does to you.
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What a man finds circa se or sub se is overwhelming in amount, what he finds in se is embarassing in its obscurity, but when from his own being he would obtain light as to what is supra se, then indeed he finds himself face to face with a dark and somewhat terrifying mystery. The trouble is that he is himself involved in the mystery. If, in any true sense, man is an image of God, how should he know himself without knowing God? But if it is really of God that he is an image, how should he know himself?
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The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
