At least half the mystery novels published violate the law that the solution, once revealed, must seem to be inevitable.
Our dream dashes itself against the great mystery like a wasp against a window pane. Less merciful than man, God never opens the window.
Anything that is deliberate, twisted, created as a trap and a mystery, must be discovered at last; everything that is done naturally remains mysterious.
What has puzzled us before seems less mysterious, and the crooked paths look straighter as we approach the end.
Mystery is not profoundness.
Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.
Mystery magnifies danger, as a fog the sun.
God, for you, is where you sweep away all the mysteries of the world, all the challenges to our intelligence. You simply turn your mind off and say God did it.
Consciousness is mysterious, and quantum theory is mysterious, and wouldn’t it be nice if one explained the other?
Mystery is the wisdom of blockheads.