How would that excellent mystery, wedded life, irradiate the world with its blessed influences, were the generous impulses and sentiments of courtship but perpetuated in all their exuberant fullness during the sequel of marriage!
Every advance in knowledge brings us face to face with the mystery of our own being.
Mystery is the lifeblood of dogmatics.
Was it a light only she could see? A gypsy's spell? A mystery?
As an actor, you've got to maintain a bit of mystery and at least part of your private life, otherwise the game is up.
To worship a sacred mystery was just to worship your own ignorance.
What we fear is what we do not know. When something is cloaked by the darkness of uncertainty, it's a mystery. Allowing light to penetrate that darkness makes everything clear.
Both the man of science and the man of art live always at the edge of mystery, surrounded by it. Both, as a measure of their creation, have always had to do with the harmonization of what is new with what is familiar, with the balance between novelty and synthesis, with the struggle to make partial order in total chaos. . . . This cannot be an easy life.
We all contain mysteries, especially when seen from the inside.
Beauty is necessarily shrouded in mystery--which is part of its splendour.
Where secrecy or mystery begins, vice or roguery is not far off.
Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.
Twitter's popularity and usefulness are mysteries to me.
I have a friend who's an artist, and he sometimes takes a view which I don't agree with. He'll hold up a flower and say, "Look how beautiful it is," and I'll agree. But then he'll say, "I, as an artist, can see how beautiful a flower is. But you, as a scientist, take it all apart and it becomes dull. " I think he's kind of nutty. [. . . ] There are all kinds of interesting questions that come from a knowledge of science, which only adds to the excitement and mystery and awe of a flower. It only adds. I don't understand how it subtracts.
No road offers more mystery than that first one you mount from the town you were born to, the first time you mount it of your own volition, on a trip funded by your own coffee tin of wrinkled up dollars - bills you've saved and scrounged for, worked the all-night switchboard for, missed the Rolling Stones for, sold fragrant pot with smashed flowers going brown inside twist-tie plastic baggies for. In fact, to disembark from your origins, you've done everything you can think to scrounge money save selling your spanking young pussy.
We don't have to look far for miracles because they're all around us. Everything is astonishing. The universe on it's surface is alive with mystery.
I think there's a mystery about what a social movement is.
We are looking for a way to feel more real, but we do not realize that to feel more real we have to push ourselves further into the unknown.
To do such a thing would be to transcend magic. And I beheld, unclouded by doubt, a magnificent vision of all that invisibility might mean to a man—the mystery, the power, the freedom. Drawbacks I saw none. You have only to think! And I, a shabby, poverty-struck, hemmed-in demonstrator, teaching fools in a provincial college, might suddenly become—this.
If the book is a mystery to its author as she's writing, inevitably it's going to be a mystery to the reader as he or she reads it.