Best 1284 quotes in «christmas quotes» category

Home is where the heart is, and you stole mine.

Honor your joy today, whilst it replenishes and strengthens you - in the company of your Soul.

Honor the freedom to celebrate Christmas, not alone - but, in the company of all those you love, too.

Hot cocoa and cold toes remind me of Christmas.

Hot he might be, but he wasn’t her type at all…

How are you enjoying the holidays so far?” “I never thought Christmas could be like this.” “You mean kinky?” “I mean honest and happy.

How I wish we could spend a couple of Christmas days together, for instance — I would also dearly like to have you in my studio once more. I, too, have been toiling quite hard recently, precisely because I was full of the Christmas feeling, and feeling isn’t enough, one must bring it into one’s work. So I’m now occupied with two large heads of an orphan man, with his white beard and old-fashioned, old top hat. This chap has the sort of old, lively face that one would wish for beside a cosy Christmas fire.

How old did someone have to be before they could be put to use to make tea?

How you felt?" he asks, still looking like he's trying to hide a smirk. "Oh, shut up. I'm going now. I'm sorry I bothered you, your Highness of Reindeerness," I say, with more than a little sarcasm. "I promise not to ever disturb you again.

Hugh refused to leave the scene of the action. He seated himself on the top stair in the hall, banged his head against the railing a few times, just by way of uncorking the vials of his wrath, and then subsided into gloomy silence, waiting to declare war if more “first girl babies” were thrust upon a family already surfeited with that unnecessary article.

Human beings, when confronted with the strange and inexplicable, have an immediate instinct to get back to the accustomed and the normal. We do not hug our miracles close; we put them hastily away, preferring the commonplace to live with it. It is as if some compulsive hand wipes clean the wall on which the handwriting appeared.

I actually hate Christmas," says Eileen. "Everybody has this idea you have to have a good time, like happiness comes in a ruddy packet." Her face is flushed with heat. "One time, I stayed in bed all day. That was one of my best Christmases.

I always remember your own grandmother, she continued, nodding her head, old Mrs. Taylor. She died on a Christmas Night. Oh, I said shivering. I wouldn't like to die on a Christmas Night. A good night to die, she smiled; they say that the gates of heaven are open on Christmas Night.

I am a bomb but I mean you no harm. That I still am here to tell this, is a miracle: I was deployed on May 15, 1957, but I didn’t go off because a British nuclear engineer, a young father, developed qualms after seeing pictures of native children marveling at the mushrooms in the sky, and sabotaged me. I could see why during that short drop before I hit the atoll: the island looks like god’s knuckles in a bathtub, the ocean is beautifully translucent, corals glow underwater, a dead city of bones, allowing a glimpse into a white netherworld. I met the water and fell a few feet into a chromatic cemetery. The longer I lie here, listening to my still functioning electronic innards, the more afraid I grow of detonating after all this time. I don’t share your gods, but I pray I shall die a silent death.

I am here, forever, to protect you. To help you, to love you. To keep you happy.” It was an oath that every elf knew, but never had to say. There was no prompt. At a certain age, two elves of nearly the same name would meet. Then one would say the oath, simply because they felt compelled to. It was more than a promise; it was a feeling. One that every single elf was born with.

I’d not wed you if you were the last creature in the kingdom.

I am sorry to have to introduce the subject of Christmas into these articles. It is an indecent subject; a cruel, gluttonous subject; a drunken, disorderly subject; a wasteful, disastrous, subject; a wicked, cadging, lying, filthy, blashphemous, and demoralizing subject. Christmas is forced on a reluctant and disgusted nation by the shopkeepers and the press: on its own merits it would wither and shrivel in the fiery breath of universal hatred; and any one who looked back to it would be turned into a pillar of greasy sausages.

I can't ignore his one-sided almost smile or his methylene blue eyes. I can't ignore his pretty shoulders or his arms. I can't ignore his big hands, his shoulder-blade-spanning hands, the way the tendons in them lock to every knuckle and speculate on things like capability and dexterity and, of course, the scar over those knuckles on his left hand that I've noticed before, and its reminder that he has a life and has been hurt in it.

I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round -- apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.

I can fly around the world in one night. I can wink and go up a chimney in a split second. I can be in 500 shopping malls on the same weekend. I can even fit enough gifts for the entire world into one tiny sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer, but I CANNOT FIX THIS CONFOUNDED COMPUTER!

I celebrate life with holy thanks.

...I do come home at Christmas. We all do, or we all should. We all come home, or ought to come home, for a short holiday - the longer, the better - from the great boarding-school, where we are forever working at our arithmetical slates, to take, and give a rest. As to going a visiting, where can we not go, if we will; where have we not been, when we would; starting our fancy away from our Christmas Tree!

I'd offer up my house, except Dad has been home nearly every night for the past week and won't be traveling again until after New Year's. Apparently, the Belgians take Christmas seriously.

I don't give a flying flip who you are or that you're a foot and a half taller than me and probably outweigh me by more than eighty pounds. Get out of my way so I can see for myself that Barry's okay.” I almost laugh at the normally shy Ricky's demanding voice but I'm thinking he wouldn't appreciate it. “Now, Mr. Chief Reindeer.” “Oh, hell.” It's not so amusing when the elf is threatening the second most powerful being in the North Pole.

I don't leave a note. There's nothing else to do. At first, I'd wanted to write Merry Christmas on the box somewhere, but I decide against it. This isn't about words. It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.

I don't know what I believe. I guess that makes me a Christmas Tree Agnostic.

I don't think I ever believed in god, but they had me going with the Santa thing for a while.

I doona want to be loved because I’m Undead. No more than ye would want to be rejected for being mortal.

I don't like humans. Sure, they're good for an occasional fuck, but they aren't like reindeer. They may look like us when we're shifted, but that's the extent of it. If that makes me human-phobic, so be it. Some I've hooked up with wanted more than I was willing to give them. When I take off to the states for a holiday, it damn sure isn't to find someone to develop feelings for.

I don't mind the dark, and because it's Christmas, we've been busy putting lights up everywhere. High, so everyone knows we're okay.

I eventually came across what looked like tiny footprints in the snow

I feel like it gives a subtle message about the importance of recycling..." said one reviewer.

If you’re giving to get, all you’ll receive is disappointment. But if you’re giving to give, all you’ll receive is joy.

If Santa Claus was a politician, he would only put billboards promising the best Christmas presents.

If we show compassion to one other, every day will be a Christmas, a glad occasion.

If you hate what you get for Christmas, try to focus on the person who gave the gift to you, not what came in the box.

If you take Christmas to heart and get past the anxieties in arranging for gifts and parties, you will rediscover yourself every year at this time and experience a birth in yourself, just like the one so beautifully described in the Gospel stories. It will be a celebration of both the birth of Jesus and the birth of your soul

if psychoanalysis was late-19th-century secular Judaism's way of constructing spiritual meaning in a post-religious world and retail is the late 20th century's way of constructing meaning in a postreligious world, what does it mean that I'm impersonating the father of psychoanalysis in a store window to commemorate a religious holiday?

If we seek for the best times to act, we may miss some opportunities. We must seize the moment and make it great.

If you like someone, you should have to make an effort.

If you live every day like it's your last, then you have no regret, because each new dawn it's a blessing in itself — a gift you didn't know you were being given.

If you stay determined, the obstacles cannot stop your progress. You will triumph over every mountain.

If you want to feel the truest spirit of Christmas, go out and find someone sadder than you, lonelier than you, poorer than you … and give what you can in a smile, in time, in compassion. The best Christmases always require the gift of self.

I had hard feelings around the holidays, the one time of year I couldn’t help but fall prey to the canned self-pity Christmas prescribes.

I get that Christmas is generally schmaltzy. I understand that it is used as a cynical cash grab. I know how far it is from what Jesus would have wanted. Nevertheless, I like that people put forth some effort to see one another during this season, that some people shake out of their commonplace anthood and toward sainthood.

Happy Christmas, Clara. Xx. Yes, I know. I know that text doesn't look like much. But... actually. First note the comma. I feel proud of his comma, and of being his comma's recipient.

I kept my head down, away from the biting air and the joy of the holiday. I didn't want to be reminded of Christmases past. No associations, no heartstrings snagged on a tree in a window, no memories.

I have always thought of Christmastime, when it has come round...as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.

I hear that in many places something has happened to Christmas; that it is changing from a time of merriment and carefree gaiety to a holiday which is filled with tedium; that many people dread the day and the obligation to give Christmas presents is a nightmare to weary, bored souls; that the children of enlightened parents no longer believe in Santa Claus; that all in all, the effort to be happy and have pleasure makes many honest hearts grow dark with despair instead of beaming with good will and cheerfulness. "A Plantation Christmas," 1934

I have loved you from the moment I heard your voice. Thank you for coming here, and being my Christmas miracle.