Holiday Quotes

After all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.

The stupid vamp just asked me to marry him. Here, now? As if looking like I just died is how I wanted to be proposed to."
Joy did a lap around Kylie's heart. "And you said?"
Holiday took a sip of water. "I asked him if we couldn't just live together in sin."
"And?"
"He told me it wouldn't be a good example to our students. So...I agreed to marry him." She pushed a hand against her forehead. "Dear God, what am I getting myself into?

Boy trouble, huh?"
"Boy catastrophe is more like it. I'm not sure I can do this."
"Do what?" Concern sounded in Holiday's voice.
"Do Lucas," Kylie said.
Holiday made a funny face and raised one eyebrow.

Holiday leaned her elbows on her desk. "You can't find one thing that points to his guilt."
"He slept with your sister!" Burnett roared.
"Guilty of murder, not of being a piece of shit.

Go out with me tomorow night," Perry went on. "Let me prove to you that I'm the guy you want."
"I...I guess I coul go out tomorrow night," Miranda sounded shocked and a little swept off her feet.
Then, from the corner of her eyes. Kylie saw something move at the office window. When she looked back, she spotted Burnett and Holiday standing there high-fiving each other. No doubt Burnett was listening to the coversation and sharing the details with Holiday.
Perry nodded, stepped closer, and then pressed a quick kiss on Miranda's cheek. It had to be the most romantic thing Kylie had ever seen.
..."What?" Miranda asked. "You're happy my date [with Todd] wasn't exciting?"
"No," Kylie said. "Let's just say we're more excited about tomorrow night's date."
A bright smile lit up Miranda's face. "Me too. Can you believ Perry did that? I mean, he was so..."
"Romantic," Kylie said.
"Hot," Della added.
"Sweet," Miranda whispered. "I couldn't stop thinkibng about him all night."
And that was the best news Kylie had gotten all day.

Snowflakes swirl down gently in the deep blue haze beyond the window. The outside world is a dream.
Inside, the fireplace is brightly lit, and the Yule log crackles with orange and crimson sparks.
There’s a steaming mug in your hands, warming your fingers.
There’s a friend seated across from you in the cozy chair, warming your heart.
There is mystery unfolding.

There is more to life than making a living. Do not work more than you live.

Once upon a time, the Reindeer took a running leap and jumped over the Northern Lights.
But he jumped too low, and the long fur of his beautiful flowing tail got singed by the rainbow fires of the aurora.
To this day the reindeer has no tail to speak of. But he is too busy pulling the Important Sleigh to notice what is lost. And he certainly doesn’t complain.
What's your excuse?

The nutcracker sits under the holiday tree, a guardian of childhood stories. Feed him walnuts and he will crack open a tale...

Colored lights blink on and off, racing across the green boughs. Their reflections dance across exquisite glass globes and splinter into shards against tinsel thread and garlands of metallic filaments that disappear underneath the other ornaments and finery.
Shadows follow, joyful, laughing sprites.
The tree is rich with potential wonder.
All it needs is a glance from you to come
alive
.

One strain could call up the quivering expectancy of Christmas Eve, childhood, joy and sadness, the lonely wonder of a star

It’d been a long time since they’d been together, but as close as they were physically, they’d never been so far apart in every other way.

Ultimately, the roast turkey must be regarded as a monument to Boomer's love.
Look at it now, plump and glossy, floating across Idaho as if it were a mammoth, mutated seed pod. Hear how it backfires as it passes the silver mines, perhaps in tribute to the origin of the knives and forks of splendid sterling that a roast turkey and a roast turkey alone possesses the charisma to draw forth into festivity from dark cupboards.
See how it glides through the potato fields, familiarly at home among potatoes but with an air of expectation, as if waiting for the flood of gravy.
The roast turkey carries with it, in its chubby hold, a sizable portion of our primitive and pagan luggage.
Primitive and pagan? Us? We of the laser, we of the microchip, we of the Union Theological Seminary and Time magazine? Of course. At least twice a year, do not millions upon millions of us cybernetic Christians and fax machine Jews participate in a ritual, a highly stylized ceremony that takes place around a large dead bird?
And is not this animal sacrificed, as in days of yore, to catch the attention of a divine spirit, to show gratitude for blessings bestowed, and to petition for blessings coveted?
The turkey, slain, slowly cooked over our gas or electric fires, is the central figure at our holy feast. It is the totem animal that brings our tribe together.
And because it is an awkward, intractable creature, the serving of it establishes and reinforces the tribal hierarchy. There are but two legs, two wings, a certain amount of white meat, a given quantity of dark. Who gets which piece; who, in fact, slices the bird and distributes its limbs and organs, underscores quite emphatically the rank of each member in the gathering.
Consider that the legs of this bird are called 'drumsticks,' after the ritual objects employed to extract the music from the most aboriginal and sacred of instruments. Our ancestors, kept their drums in public, but the sticks, being more actively magical, usually were stored in places known only to the shaman, the medicine man, the high priest, of the Wise Old Woman. The wing of the fowl gives symbolic flight to the soul, but with the drumstick is evoked the best of the pulse of the heart of the universe.
Few of us nowadays participate in the actual hunting and killing of the turkey, but almost all of us watch, frequently with deep emotion, the reenactment of those events. We watch it on TV sets immediately before the communal meal. For what are footballs if not metaphorical turkeys, flying up and down a meadow? And what is a touchdown if not a kill, achieved by one or the other of two opposing tribes? To our applause, great young hungers from Alabama or Notre Dame slay the bird. Then, the Wise Old Woman, in the guise of Grandma, calls us to the table, where we, pretending to be no longer primitive, systematically rip the bird asunder.
Was Boomer Petaway aware of the totemic implications when, to impress his beloved, he fabricated an outsize Thanksgiving centerpiece? No, not consciously. If and when the last veil dropped, he might comprehend what he had wrought. For the present, however, he was as ignorant as Can o' Beans, Spoon, and Dirty Sock were, before Painted Stick and Conch Shell drew their attention to similar affairs.
Nevertheless, it was Boomer who piloted the gobble-stilled butterball across Idaho, who negotiated it through the natural carving knives of the Sawtooth Mountains, who once or twice parked it in wilderness rest stops, causing adjacent flora to assume the appearance of parsley.

The Gingerbread House has four walls, a roof, a door, a window, and a chimney. It is decorated with many sweet culinary delights on the outside.
But on the inside there is nothing—only the bare gingerbread walls.
It is not a real house—not until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room.
That’s when the stories can move in.
They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite.

This boy turkied my Thanksgiving, but I won't let him Grinch my Christmas. -Dean Hughes (Midway to Heaven)

As individuals die every moment, how insensitive and fabricated a love it is to set aside a day from selfish routine in prideful, patriotic commemoration of tragedy. Just as God is provoked by those who tithe simply because they feel that they must tithe, I am provoked by those who commemorate simply because they feel that they must commemorate.

We've gone on holiday by mistake

Seek out some retired and old-world spot, far from the madding crowd, and dream away a sunny week among its drowsy lanes - some half-forgotten nook, hidden away by the fairies, out of reach of the noisy world - some quaint-perched eyrie on the cliffs of Time, from whence the surging waves of the nineteenth century would sound far-off and faint.

For their holidays: the rich go see the world; the poor go see their parents.

We are so used to working that not working is the new hard work.

Self-employment killed the weekend.

Judging by the photograph it seemed like I hadn’t been there at all. As if it was my camera that had been on holiday, and not me.

Periods are a period when nature forces prostitutes to go on leave.

She'd been trained as a child no to trust anyone, but he'd just saved her life, and she was freezing. He could be a yeti for all she cared.

You know what? From now on, I think I’m going to call you Mister Christmas.

For their holidays: the rich’s kids travel the world; the poor’s kids roam around their grandparents’ yard.

The strange thing is, this truly horrifying experience planted a seed deep within my heart that germinated and grew into a desire that, I have to admit, I've never completely overcome.

She blinked once, then twice, and yet again, sure what she viewed was just another part of this fantasy world that she had stepped into when her feet touched the green grass of Ireland.

Bach felt the beauty and sadness of the moment. These men who defied the power of the Russian heavy artillery, these coarse, hardened soldiers who were dispirited by their lack of ammunition and tormented by vermin and hunger had all understood at once that what they needed more than anything in the world was not bread, not bandages, not ammunition, but these tiny branches twined with useless tinsel, these orphanage toys.

The more civilized people are, the more honorable working hard is to them. As a result, the more civilized we get, the less we live.

It’s so obvious that you’re gonna ask a good looking dude to be with you for the rest of your holiday while you only know his name for like 2 hours, 32 minutes, 12 seconds.
Trisha! Being mean is my job! June, you’re so predictable, like, it’s not a shock for us if you’re gonna ask a good looking dude to be with you for the rest of your holiday while you only know his name for like 2 hours, 33 minutes, 2 seconds.

Oh my God, you're huge." She struggled to get her hands to the ends of the long sleeves. The garment hung to her knees. She glanced up to see his lips pressed together, like he was choking on a laugh. The corners of his eyes wee crinkled and amusement flickered in his heated gaze.

Most people made comments on how I was the strongest woman they knew.
That was before the title wave of disaster hit my charmed life.

Thoughts turn to other's just a little more this time of year. Days grow shorter and memories grow longer. Families and friends gather in celebration or hope. Giving is a reflection of our love and caring for each other and those less fortunate. May your thoughts turn to gratitude this holiday season and carry on throughout the next year…

She stared at the castle. She had actually been summoned to a castle. A week before Christmas.

Patsy had asked him if he had had adventures in Paris and he had truthfully answered no. It was a fact that he had done nothing; his father thought he had had a devil of a time and was afraid he had contracted a venereal disease, and he hadn't even had a woman; only one thing had happened to him, it was rather curious when you came to think of it, and he didn't just then quite know what to do about it: the bottom had fallen out of his world.

Sitting aimlessly in bedrooms- often on the bed itself- is another characteristic feature of the English holidays. The meal was over and it was only twenty five past seven. 'The evening stretches before us,' Viola said gloomily.

Patsy had asked him if he had had adventures in Paris and he had truthfully answered no. It was a fact that he had done nothing; his father thought he had had a devil of a time and was afraid he had contracted a venereal disease, and he hadn't even had a woman; only one thing had happened to him, it was rather curious when you came to think of it, and he didn't just then quite know what to do about it: the bottom had fallen out of his world.

However, although you might think this is the time of year to take some time off, you must never transgress one of the allotment rules: 'Thou shan't go on holiday in summer!

Poor people do not go on holiday; they go home.

Merry Christmas. His would be without the Merry for sure.

Keeping Christ in Christmas" is like showing up at someone's house every year, insisting on a party they never planned and never agreed to.

I’m a holiday Christian at best and I’d never given much thought to demons. They were an adult version of the boogieman hiding in every kid’s closet.

We are soon approaching a refined holiday, "Merry Mas," where Christ will be taken out of its context.