There is something precious in our being mysteries to ourselves, in our being unable ever to see through even the person who is closest to our heart and to reckon with him as though he were a logical proposition or a problem in accounting.

Mystery has its own mysteries, and there are gods above gods. We have ours, they have theirs. That is what's known as infinity.

Mystery is not profoundness.

What am I, Life? A thing of watery salt held in cohesion by unresting cells. Which work they know not why, which never halt, myself unwitting where their Master dwells?