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Quotes about Mystery

For what is time? ... Who can even in thought comprehend it, so as to utter a word about it? ... If no one asks me, I know: If I wish to explain it to one that asketh, I know not.
— St. Augustine
God is raising up His heroes and the time will come when they will appear and the world will wonder where they came from.
— AW Tozer
Every time you wink the stars move.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
Most women I know are priestesses and healers, although many don't know it yet, and some never will. We are all of us sisters of a mysterious order.
— Marianne Williamson
Embrace relational uncertainty. It's called romance. Embrace spiritual uncertainty. It's called mystery. Embrace occupational uncertainty. It's called destiny. Embrace emotional uncertainty. It's called joy. Embrace intellectual uncertainty. It's called revelation.
— Mark Batterson
But please remember: this is only a work of fiction. The truth, as always, will be far stranger.
— Arthur C. Clarke
He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. but I did - some little distance off, but fresh and clear Footprints? Footprints. A man's or a woman's? Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered: Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of s gigantic hound!
— Arthur Conan Doyle
That which is clearly known hath less terror than that which is but hinted at and guessed.
— Arthur Conan Doyle
Come, Watson, come!' he cried. 'The game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!' Ten minutes later we were both in a cab and rattling through the silent streets on our way to Charing Cross Station.
— Arthur Conan Doyle
You mentioned your name as if I should recognize it, but beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, a freemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you.
— Arthur Conan Doyle
The ways of fate are indeed hard to understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, then the world is a cruel jest.
— Arthur Conan Doyle
You're too late. She's my wife. No, she's your widow. His revolver cracked, and I saw the blood spurt from the front of Woodley's waistcoat. He spun round with a scream and fell upon his back, his hideous red face turning suddenly to a dreadful mottled pallor.
— Arthur Conan Doyle