People love mystery, and that is why they love my paintings.
The mystery of the beginning of all things is insoluble by us; and I for one must be content to remain an agnostic.
What constitutes a real, live human being is more of a mystery than ever these days, and men each one of whom is a valuable, unique experiment on the part of nature are shot down wholesale.
Only mystery allows us to live, only mystery.
What I am seeking is not the real and not the unreal but rather the unconscious, the mystery of the instinctive in the human race.
The real question is not whether machines think but whether men do. The mystery which surrounds a thinking machine already surrounds a thinking man.
Love is an endless mystery, because there is no reasonable cause that could explain it.