Quotes About Holiday

Quotes tagged as "holiday" (showing 1-30 of 66)
Jarod Kintz
“My birthday is on a holiday. I just have to wait until I die and they commemorate me.”
Jarod Kintz, Great Listener Series Mute Women

C.C. Hunter
“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."
"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?”
C.C. Hunter, Whispers at Moonrise

Kenneth Grahame
“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.”
Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

C.C. Hunter
“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.”
C.C. Hunter, Taken at Dusk

C.C. Hunter
“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.”
C.C. Hunter, Whispers at Moonrise

C.C. Hunter
“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.”
C.C. Hunter, Whispers at Moonrise

Vera Nazarian
“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.”
Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

Vera Nazarian
“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?”
Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

Jarod Kintz
“Jarod Kintz Day—it’s not just my birthday, but it should be a holiday that’s mandatory to celebrate, punishable by death if you don’t. It’ll be a holiday that honors freedom.
Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

Mokokoma Mokhonoana
“There is more to life than making a living. Do not work more than you live.”
Mokokoma Mokhonoana

Maud Hart Lovelace
“One strain could call up the quivering expectancy of Christmas Eve, childhood, joy and sadness, the lonely wonder of a star”
Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy Was a Junior

Vera Nazarian
“The nutcracker sits under the holiday tree, a guardian of childhood stories. Feed him walnuts and he will crack open a tale...”
Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

Vera Nazarian
“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.”
Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

Tom Robbins
“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.”
Tom Robbins, Skinny Legs and All

Criss Jami
“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.”
Criss Jami, Killosophy

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

Vera Nazarian
“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.”
Vera Nazarian, The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

C.S. Woolley
“One day, I'll take a holiday and manage to do no work on it at all and just enjoy being away - however that won't be for some time.”
C.S. Woolley

Robert Graves
“That the crowd always likes a holiday is a common saying, but when the whole year becomes one long holiday, and nobody has time for attending to his business, and pleasure becomes compulsory, then it is a different matter.”
Robert Graves, I, Claudius

Criss Jami
“Fresh, solid ideas feel like gifts to writers, therefore every morning is Christmas.”
Criss Jami, Killosophy

David Chiles
“Holiday Greetings shared through eCards are good #Netiquette. Make a list and check it twice. NetworkEtiquette.net”
David Chiles

Barbara Pym
“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.”
Barbara Pym, No Fond Return of Love

Carew Papritz
“Thanksgiving - fall's finale. Best damn holiday of the year in my worldly estimation.”
Carew Papritz, The Legacy Letters: his Wife, his Children, his Final Gift

Terry Spear
“Can you handle it?"
"Hell yeah."
"I mean..." Tom glanced around the tavern where pack members filled nearly every chair at the wooden tables. The room was humming with conversation. He leaned forward. "Because of the ghosts."
"That don't exist."
"Yeah, I can handle it.”
Terry Spear, A Silver Wolf Christmas

Justin Bog
“With more time spent in their mother's presence, Maggie kept topics of conversation to small stuff, seldom ever wanted to dig below the surface, learned from her mother: just be polite, which makes Callie's own facile mental questioning and creative drive, paired with her physical rigidity, all the more oppositional, and, how they dance around serious subjects, laughable.”
Justin Bog, Hark---A Christmas Collection

Myra McEntire
“it turns out, teachers think of glitter as the herpes of craft world- impossible to contain or exterminate. (Beer Buckets and Baby Jesus)”
Myra McEntire, My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories

Eric Gamalinda
“I'll remember your apocalypse if you'll remember mine
It will be a holiday of the senses”
Eric Gamalinda, Amigo Warfare

Robert Graves
“I had chosen the fifteenth day of July, the day that Roman Knights go out crowned with olive wreaths to honor the Twins in a magnificent horseback procession:from the Temple of Mars they ride through the main streets of the City, circling back to the Temple of the Twins, where they offer sacrifices. The ceremony is a commemoration of the battle of Lake Regillus which was fought on that day over three hundred years ago. Castor and Pollux came riding in person to the help of a Roman army that was making a desperate stand on the lake-shore against a superior force of Latins; and ever since then they have been adopted as the particular patrons of the knights.”
Robert Graves, Claudius the God and His Wife Messalina

S.A. Tawks
“When does relaxing turn into living? How can you call it relaxing when that is all you are doing?”
S.A. Tawks, Mule

Lucy Foley
“It was then I thought of Corsica, the place we had discovered together. I craved the wind, the sun and salt, the simplicity of the island.”
Lucy Foley, The Book of Lost and Found

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