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The world is not comprehensible, but it is embraceable: through the embracing of one of its beings.

Mystery is not profoundness.

Isn't that what writing is about? The constant attempt to understand the world?

Everything that has existed, lingers in the Eternity.

The mystery of the beginning of all things is insoluble by us; and I for one must be content to remain an agnostic.

Once, the world was full of mysteries, some of them frightening, some of them wonderful, some of them merely fascinating. Now, it can be a banal and predictable place, the tracks of daily life so well-beaten and defined, our culture awash with the imbecile obvious, our existence suffocating in safety. But mysteries remain.

You know, I think that allowing somebody, one mere person to believe that he or she is like, the vessel you know, like the font and the essence and the source of all divine, creative, unknowable, eternal mystery is just a smidge too much responsibility to put on one fragile, human psyche. It's like asking somebody to swallow the sun.

Mystery is something that appeals to most everybody.