As I make my slow pilgrimage through the world, a certain sense of beautiful mystery seems to gather and grow.
Mystery has its own mysteries, and there are gods above gods. We have ours, they have theirs. That is what's known as infinity.
If I had a bookstore I would make all the mystery novels hard to find.
The mystery story is two stories in one: the story of what happened and the story of what appeared to happen.
Has all the trappings of a mystery novel, doesn't it?