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What would you think the odds were that this town could keep that secret for this long?
--
Benjamin C. Bradlee, former Executive Editor of the Washington Post, who, along with Woodward and Bernstein, were the only ones publicly known to know the identity of "Deep Throat."

 

W. Mark Felt

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What is the odds so long as the fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conwiviality, and the wing of friendship never moults a feather! What is the odds so long as the spirit is expanded by means of rosy wine, and the present moment is the least happiest of our existence!

 

Charles Dickens

 

A man who for a long time has gone around hiding a secret becomes mentally deranged. At this point one would imagine that his secret would have to come out, but despite his derangement his soul still sticks to its hideout, and those around him become even more convinced that the false story he told to deceive them is the truth. He is healed of his insanity, knows everything that has gone on, and thereby perceives that nothing has been betrayed. Was this gratifying to him or not; he might wish to have disposed of his secret in his madness; it seems as if there were a fate which forced him to remain in his secret and would not let him go away from it. Or was it for the best, was there a guardian spirit who helped him keep his secret.

 

Soren Aabye Kierkegaard

 

Well everybody's got a secret, son, something that they just can't face.
Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it, they carry it with them every step that they take
Till some day they just cut it loose, cut it loose or let it drag 'em down
Where no one asks any questions or looks too long in your face
In the darkness on the edge of town.

 

Bruce Springsteen

 

I hid my love in field and town
Till een the breeze would knock me down,
The bees seemed singing ballads oer,
The fly's bass turned a lion's roar;
And even silence found a tongue,
To haunt me all the summer long;
The riddle nature could not prove
Was nothing else but secret love.

 

John Clare

 

Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you'll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry –
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there's a story in a book about it…

 

Robert Frost