Best 63 quotes in «santa claus quotes» category

I thought you were all-seeing.” All-knowing, not all-seeing!” he snapped. “I’m a God, not Santa Claus!

Jesus is Santa Claus for Adults.

The greatest thing is not to believe in Santa Claus; it is to be Santa Claus.

An ounce of goodness everyday, Can soothe the heart in many ways, An ounce of goodness "just because" Don't wait until Christmas to be Santa Claus

Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter whether the story’s true or not. What matters is the care that’s been put into the story. The love. If something is pretend, that usually means someone has taken the time to build a story for you to live in. And building stories takes a lot of work. And, yes, there will come a time when you’ll see the story isn’t true. But the intentions behind it? Completely true. The love behind it? Also true.

By first believing in Santa Claus, then the Easter Bunny, then the Tooth Fairy, Rant Casey was recognizing that those myths are more than pretty stories and traditions to delight children. Or to modify behavior. Each of those three traditions asks a child to believe in the impossible in exchange for a reward. These are stepped-up tests to build a child's faith and imagination. The first test is to believe in a magical person, with toys as the reward. The second test is to trust in a magical animal, with candy as the reward. The last test is the most difficult, with the most abstract reward: To believe, trust in a flying fairy that will leave money. From a man to an animal to a fairy. From toys to candy to money. Thus, interestingly enough, transferring the magic of faith and trust from sparkling fairy-dom to clumsy, tarnished coins. From gossamer wings to nickels... dimes... and quarters. In this way, a child is stepped up to greater feats of imagination and faith as he or she matures. Beginning with Santa in infancy, and ending with the Tooth Fairy as the child acquires adult teeth. Or, plainly put, beginning with all the possibility of childhood, and ending with an absolute trust in the national currency.

Christmas was gluing cotton balls to Santa’s beard in Coke ads, sneaking candy canes off the tree daily (that my parents replaced every few nights), enough gift-wrap to wallpaper a room, the terror and delight of knowing a magical being would enter my home while I slept.

Do you know, it's really hard to be a parent. I blame it on Santa Claus. You spend so long making sure your kid doesn't know he's fake that you can't tell when you're supposed to stop." "Mom, I found you and Calla wrapping my presents when I was, like, six." "It was a metaphor, Blue." "A metaphor's supposed to clarify by providing an example. That didn't clarify." "Do you know what I mean or not?" "What you mean is that you're sorry you didn't tell me about Butternut." Maura glowered at the door as if Calla stood behind it. "I wish you wouldn't call him that." "If you'd been the one to tell me about him, then I wouldn't be using what Calla told me." "Fair enough.

Every muscle in his body tensed for action, adrenalin pounding through his tiny veins, he crept down the stairs, keeping to the corners (where he knew they creaked less). He peered around the bottom of the stairwell into the living room, and there he saw a lean, bearded man, clad only in a loincloth and a crown of thorns. When he bent over the Xmas tree, Tony saw that blood flowed freely from his bare hands and feet. Before the cherubic prepubescent could stop himself, the words flew out of his mouth: “You’re not Santa!

Father xmas is like the love from a prostitute, it doesn’t exist and it makes you spend loads of money.

Having in our childhood felt primal awe for the spectacle of the holiday, we are told to age into feeling sullen and resentful. You are supposed to proclaim Santa dead like preadolescent Nietzsches and decry the whole month as an orgy of crass commercialism.

In addition to the smells of mince and pumpkin pies, the Sage and onions of turkey stuffing, another aroma floated in the air, the very essence of Santa Claus. Years later, when I was grown up, I still remembered that marvelous fragrance and recognized it as Scotch whisky.

On Christmas. "Santa Claus represents God on assistance," said Clyde. "Santa Claus is a negative-idealed god, the pagan god of material worship," Leon stated. "Christmas means the rebirth, regeneration. Some people have Christmas every day. The Christmas tree stands up and either the wife trims it or they trim it together with righteous-idealed sexual intercourse. Or the husband prays to God through his Christmas tree and trims his bodily Christmas tree. Christ-mast; the mast of Christ, the upstanding penis—that's what it means to me." "Santa Claus is a good symbolization for Christmas," said Joseph. "Department stores, shopping, the coming of the New Year. Christmas means better business in the stores.

Isn’t Santa just a stand in for the society that has locked them up for formative years? Something that watches and judges, telling them that they got what they deserved based on their behavior? Surely they have to have noticed that Saint Nick, like the judicial system itself, tends to look more favorably upon rich children. He is fat, white, past middle age, and holds all the cards.

It had been like discovering that Santa Claus was secretly a Nazi.

It’s about Nietzsche’s theory of universal debt. Your parents make it possible for you to believe a far better myth than Santa. They let you think that you, as a kid, don’t owe the world a thing. The world can give you, even if just for a few minutes, utter joy without requiring anything from you. It’s not about consumerism. As far as you know, no one buys you these presents. They come out of nothingness, with fantasies of elves attached. You aren’t required to be grateful to your parents or anything like that. They can give to you and nothing is required in return. When you get old enough, when you have kids, you get to enact this myth for them. It has nothing to do with any fat man in a red suit, no matter what we tell ourselves. It’s about owing nothing, and then realizing that you have to do this job of perpetuating this… this fantasy world, whether you like it or not.

[It's Not About You, Mr. Santa Claus,] is a fun read and a twist on Christmas, because it does involve Santa Claus and Jesus, and it doesn’t say that Santa Claus is bad, but it’s the child explaining to Santa Claus the true reason for the season is Jesus.

... I've never met a magical creature before. All I know is what I've heard in stories. Father Christmas, for instance, with the elves who make the toys." Tergil was impassive. "We relate a similar tale," he replied. "It is called Santa Clause and his slave workforce". "Oh," said Thorpe. "It is an ancient story," said the elf, "about the perils of trusting strangers. It does have a happy ending, though. The evil Clause is beaten to death with hunks of reindeer meat.

Maybe if it were up to me I wouldn't have the whole world collectively believe in Santa Claus, but I would definitely have them collectively believe in something, because there is a messed-up kind of beauty in the way we can all bend over backward to make life seem magical when we want to.

MURRY: I believe in a lot of things. Santa Claus, magic, vampires, and even ghosts but I don't believe in luck. Good or bad.

My family and I really enjoyed this book. We loved the characters and the illustrations in the book. It gives great insight to what those first days of school can be like. It's just a very fun and entertaining book to read. I recommend this book to all families it will not disappoint.

Oh, and you must not forget the Kris Kringle. The child must believe in him until she reaches the age of six." " I KNOW there is not Santa Claus." "Yet you must teach the child that these things are so." "Why? When I, myself, do not believe?" "Because...the child must have a valuable things which is called imagination. The child must have a secret world in which [to] live things that never were. It is necessary that she BELIEVE. She must start out believing in things not of this world. Then when the world becomes too ugly for living in, the child can reach back and live in her imagination.

Once a kid discovers Santa isn't real, reminding her how much she used to love Santa isn't going to make her believe again.

On Christmas morning, my Mam and Dad were downstairs shouting to me to look out the window. They’d shout, ‘There’s Santa.’ Dad used to ring this bell and say it was one of Santa’s bells on the sleigh. I could hear Santa’s bells ringing as I jumped out of bed, really excited and I looked out the bedroom window in to the dark morning, fully expecting to see Santa and co magically flying through the air and maybe even he would spot me and give me a wave. ‘I can’t see him,’ I’d proclaim in sadness and then the bells would stop and I knew he’d have gone to someone else’s house, but I also knew that he hadn’t forgotten me. I’d run downstairs and in to the room whilst still in my pyjamas where the prezzies were. The excitement was unbelievable and my parents used to buzz as they watched my face beaming up at them in joy.

Santa is like a queen bee. All the elves are his drones, who exist to feed him royal jelly, which I guess would be milk and cookies. If an elf escapes and eats royal cookies, it will turn into another Santa. That’s what all those mall Santas are. They’re trying to start their own festive colonies.

That story you heard? About how we were all created by a super-powerful dude named God who lives up in the sky? Total bullshit. The whole God thing is actually an ancient fairy tale that people have been telling one another for thousands of years. We made it all up. Like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Oh, and by the way... there's no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny. Also bullshit. Sorry, kid. Deal with it.

The crucified figure had not been idle. A series of elaborate twists activated a cunning mechanism; the base of the cross blew apart, revealing a winding metal spring at the base. At the same time, there was a whir of machinery, a grinding sound of metal against metal, and a series of spindly steel tubes emerged from the head and arms of the cross; and as the jolly old elf grunted and arched his back, the giant laser-mounted pogo stick heaved into the air, leaving in its wake waves of devastation, and a merry, menacing cry of “Ho-ho-ho!

The good news was that we’d found Santa. The bad news was that he was floating in a giant tube of clear fluid, seemingly unconscious. The worse news was that he was completely naked, except for a festive red hat; his clothes and his magic sack were piled neatly in a darkened corner.

The jolly old elf’s nose was red, but not from cold — rather, from the brutality of a dozen boxes of Kleenex. Mucus flowed freely down his cheeks, and mixed with tears of agony. She folded her arms, pursed her lips, and declared: “You’re not going out this week.

The problem is not that Santa stops existing but that we do. The children we are no longer exist, a fact we do not help through immersing ourselves in the repeating cycle of wake, work, dinner, internet, sleep.

The three phases of Santa belief: (1) Santa is real. (2) Santa isn't real. (3) Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Well, my book is real,” affirmed Ahimsa as he hugged his book of Christmas carols like a sacred bible. “So, if Santa is written in there, which he IS, then he’s real too! Santa exists just like ink on a page exists, so there!” “Well, I’ve never seen him,” argued Jack. “And I’ve never seen a thought, but I can think!” Ahimsa shot back.

When he received these communications, Santa drew the claws of his spectacles from behind his eyes and pressed the sore place on the bridge of his nose with thumb and finger. What was it they expected him to do with these? A shotgun, a bear, snowshoes, some pretty things and some useful: well, all right. But for the rest of it . . . He just didn't know what people were thinking anymore. But it was growing late; if they, or anyone else, were disappointed in him tomorrow, it wouldn't be the first time. He took his furred hat from its peg and drew on his gloves. He went out, already unaccountably weary though the journey had not even begun, into the multicolored arctic waste beneath a decillion stars, whose near brilliance seemed to chime, even as the harness of his reindeer chimed when they raised their shaggy heads at his approach, and as the eternal snow chimed too when he trod it with his booted feet.

You believe in love, just as a child believes in Santa Claus or a fairy tale.” “What is love then, if not a fairy tale meant for adults?

You know I wouldn’t want to meddle with your book,” he said. “You’ll know what’s best to put in it. But there's one last thing I want to say to the people of the world. If you would, put it at the very back of your book, so people will remember it most.” “I’ll be happy to do whatever you ask,” I said. “I know that, Alden, I know that,” Santa said. “You’re one of the fine people of the earth.” He didn't see my blush at his compliment; he was looking out at the snowy horizon. “Here’s what I want to say. At Christmastime, people suddenly turn loving and unselfish. They start to share with others, and they notice how happy it makes them. They give and give and don’t really expect anything in return. “Even nations get the Christmas spirit. More than once I’ve taken off on Christmas Eve a little worried about the guns and missiles I was sure to encounter—only to find that the warring countries had declared a Christmas truce.” He paused again, and we stopped walking. Santa grasped my arm and spoke more earnestly. “Tell the people that Christmas is the best time of the year—oh, they know that. But why can’t we make the whole year like that? Why can’t we be loving and sharing all year ‘round—even when others aren’t loving and sharing back? “Alden, you know me. I’m not a preachy guy. I’ve said my piece. But tell the people that, please. Please?” He stared at me for a moment, his eyes not wavering, and then he gave me a great big bear hug. “And tell all my kids they’re the greatest thing on Earth,” he whispered in my ear.

You know you're getting old when Santa starts looking younger.

Being a superpower is like being a Santa Claus that everyone hates.

Here comes Santa Claus! Here comes Santa Claus! Right down Santa Claus Lane!

I know I'm 38 but I insist that santa claus exists and he raped my mother when I was 9.

Please be informed, there is a Santa Claus.

Be someone's Santa; give ‘Fanta’!

Christmas doesn't feel like a holiday anymore. It feels more like a mainstream obligation to buy things for people most likely to buy us things, so we're not embarrassed by the perception of not caring for them. It's a product marketing season that starts earlier every year, replacing Halloween candy on the store shelves with Santa Claus. It's the most insufferable time of the year.

For months I yearned to see Santa again, mooning for him like a lost love. Then, on Christmas Eve, I was awakened by someone shaking me in my bed. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” a voice said out of the darkness. I felt the giggles rising up in my throat. But that's another story...

God is Santa Claus for Grown-Ups.

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

I was staring at one of the most famous images of Santa Claus of all time — one by Thomas Nast, from Harper’s Weekly, 1881.

Jesus shook his head slowly from side to side, then thrust his left hand deep into Santa’s sack. Out came something resembling raw steak, slippery and pulsating, throbbing crimson fluid in every direction. Yanking up my shirt, he rapidly pressed his other hand against my right side. He closed his eyes, and I watched as the healthy liver in his hand became corrugated and cirrhotic. I then found myself, sealed once more within my prison of flesh, disgorging bile and ethanol from every orifice.

Later that day I went back to the old turf-house door and drew back the ivy. There between the stones was the dried-out bird's nest that was no longer in use because its owner was on her foreign holidays. I eased my letter to Santa out of my pocket and tucked it into the nest. I considered this the ideal resting place because the owner and Santa both belonged to foreign places and came here across the sky. There was the mystery of the unknown about the worlds they both came from; they belonged in the sky and my letter was destined to join them there when the time was right.

Many came but only two blue did appear. Enlaced in a sleigh, all happy the reindeer, Rolled in the snow that covered the house, Reindeer darling of she who's Ana Claus, Yell to the whole world to hear: Christ, the Lord, oh just so near! Holy Saints rejoice and sing, Real life comes for us to bring In tender thoughts and dear salvation, So is the Lord and all His Creation. Tender and sweet as the little things, Mild and soft He who is the King. All in one voice echoeing with no parallel: Save us the Lord, it's Noel, Noel, Noel!

Ma!" she cried. "There is a Santa Claus, isn't there?" "Of course there's a Santa Claus," said Ma. "The older you are, the more you know about Santa Claus," she said. "You are so big now, you know he can't be just one man, don't you? You know he is everywhere on Christmas Eve. He is in the Big Woods, and in Indian Territory, and far away in York State, and here. He comes down all the chimneys at the same time. You know that, don't you?" "Yes, Ma," said Mary and Laura. "Well," said Ma. "Then you see--" "I guess he is like angels," Mary said, slowly. And Laura could see that, just as well as Mary could. Then Ma told them something else about Santa Claus. He was everywhere, and besides that, he was all the time. Whenever anyone was unselfish, that was Santa Claus. Christmas Eve was the time when everybody was unselfish. On that one night, Santa Claus was everywhere, because everybody, all together, stopped being selfish and wanted other people to be happy. And in the morning you saw what that had done. "If everybody wanted everybody else to be happy all the time, then would it be Christmas all the time?" Laura asked, and Ma said, "Yes, Laura.