enigma

Always remember that you were once alone, and the crowd you see in your life today are just as unecessary as when you were alone.

Life has its enigmatic events, that can make it a mystery, or my misery. It all depends on how I view it.

Mirabelle was always an enigma, and he had the sense that if he pushed her, she__ bolt.

Writers are like onions, layers upon layers upon layers.

Love is hope and expectation. If many want to pencil it in, some don__ dare to ink it in, because love also means mystery and enigma. ( " Love as dizzy as a cathedral")

I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a pita. Why the pita? That counts as another mystery.

To the man of science, on his unassuming and laborious travels, which must often enough be journeys through the desert, there appear those glittering mirages called 'philosophical systems'; with bewitching deceptive power they show the solution of all enigmas and the freshest draught of the true water of life to be near at hand; his heart rejoices, and it seems to the weary traveller that his lips already touch the goal of all the perseverance and sorrows of the scientific life... Other natures again, may well grow exceedingly ill-humoured and curse the salty taste which these apparitions leave behind in the mouth and from which arises a raging thirst _ without one having been brought so much as a step nearer to any kind of spring.

I can see better when i close my eyes; don't make much ado, that's my latest style of view.

She doesn't give directions but there is a pot of gold at the end of her rainbow...Find it. If you can.

Oblivion is the place where all my best thoughts reside or I must say hide.

We were friends, never paramours. A lover who is enigmatic will most likely prove to be a cataclysm waiting to happen. But a charming friend whose usual warmth is raveled through moments of cool inscrutability can be an intriguing companion.

I could be that tenebrous enigma that floods out your words with sighs and frustration.

Hayden McGregor glanced with contempt at the pitch-black road. __ do not fear the darkness. It fears me._ He dismissed the approaching gloom with a narrowed stare. His steel gray eyes holding it back with a contemptuous regard.

If you understand or if you don'tIf you believe or if you doubtThere's a universal justiceAnd the eyes of truthAre always watching you

Don't be afraid to be weakDon't be too proud to be strongJust look into your heart my friendThat will be the return to yourselfThe return to innocenceIf you want, then start to laughIf you must, then start to cryBe yourself don't hideJust believe in destinyDon't care what people sayJust follow your own wayDon't give up and miss the chanceTo return to innocenceThat's not the beginning of the endThat's the return to yourselfThe return to innocenceDon't care what people sayJust follow your own wayDon't give up and miss the chanceto return to innocence

In every colour there's the light.In every stone sleeps a crystal.Remember the Shaman, when he used to say:Man is the dream of the dolphin

Why are those who knew him, when they pass from the memory of a young man, sensitive and gay, to the work _ novels and writings _ surprised to pass into a nocturnal world, a world of cold torment, a world not without light but in which light blinds at the same time that it illuminates; gives hope, but makes hope the shadow of anguish and despair? Why is it that he who, in his work, passes from the objectivity of the narratives to the intimacy of the Diary, descends into a still darker night in which the cries of a lost man can be heard? Why does it seem that the closer one comes to his heart, the closer one comes to an unconsoled center from which a piercing flash sometimes bursts forth, an excess of pain, excess of joy? Who has the right to speak of Kafka without making this enigma heard, an enigma that speaks with the complexity, with the simplicity, of enigma?

Q: Why do I love thee, O Night?A: Because you know I will never answer.