Anonymous Christmas Quotes

The glory of Advent and Christmas is camouflaged by humility, anonymity and even foolishness, for our God likes to hide himself beneath his opposite.

You wish to be anonymous?" "I wish to be left alone," said Scrooge. "Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don't make merry myself at Christmas and I can't afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned--they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there." "Many can't go there; and many would rather die." "If they would rather die," said Scrooge, "they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.

At the top of the slope on the perimeter of the site, overlooking six lanes of motorway, is a diner frequented by lorry drivers who have either just unloaded or or are waiting to pick up their cargo. Anyone nursing a disappointment with domestic life would find relief in this tiled, brightly lit cafeteria with its smells of fries and petrol, for it has the reassuring feel of a place where everyone is just passing through--and which therefore has none of the close-knit or convivial atmosphere which could cast a humiliating light on one's own alienation. It suggests itself as an ideal location for Christmas lunch for those let down by their families.

For J.J., God is something warm and innocent, Christmas presents and stories from his big sister. Lucy’s God is one of revolution and justice, someone who can set a damaged, difficult world right. But they’re the same God, from the same book—the same unbending, authoritarian God that Theresa believes in. Can one God be all those things to all those people?

Don't worry, Ian. I totally protected your anonymity. I told her you were my brother." "Great," he pouted."Now she's going to ask me about you. And I told you--I'm friendly and pleasant and then I move on." "You can do that. She'll find you perfectly understandable." "Oh? And why's that?" "Well, she wondered about you. Said you ask for some heavy reading sometimes, but that you didn't make much conversation." "Oh, really?" "Yes," Marcie explained. "I said you were brilliant, but not a very social animal. I said she shouldn't expect a lot of chitchat from you, but you were perfectly nice and there was no reason to be shy around you--you're safer than you look." "Is that so? And how did you convince her of that?" "Easy. I said you were an idiot savant--brilliant in literature and many other things, but socially you weren't on your game." "Oh, Jesus Christ!" -Ian and Marcie

I hope it snows soon. Christmas is so much more magical with snow.

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.

That’s right, I am the unenthusiastic girl people avoid making eye contact with when they buy their spank mags and twelve-inch rubber cocks. I’m the one in full HAZMAT gear cleaning up the “accidental” shot spots they leave behind in one of our twenty-five cent porn booths. For what it’s worth, there’s a reason I don’t fill in the glory holes, they all think they’re so sneaky, getting their dick sucked by some anonymous stranger on the other side. I see it as less clean up, let the cock sucking stranger slurp up their spunk. It saves me running a disinfectant wipe along the wall, hoping that none of it touches any part of me. So keep up the good work anonymous strangers, keep gobbling cock and making my life easier. If you want, leave your address at the store and I’ll add you to my fucking Christmas card list.

A popular Chinese essay by an anonymous author carved out an archetype of the young white-collar class, the men and women who sip cappuccino, date online, have a DINK family, take subways and taxis, fly economy, stay in nice hotels, go to pubs, make long phone calls, listen to the blues, work overtime, go out at night, celebrate Christmas, have one-night-stands … keep The Great Gatsby and Pride and Prejudice on their nightstands. They live for love, manners, culture, art, and experience. In

At school, my religious-education teacher expressly forbade us to write "Xmas." It was regarded as a foul blasphemy. How would I like it if people used an anonymous X in place of my name? However, it would seem that the word "Xmas" is not blasphemous after all. In the original Greek, "Christ" was written "Xristos," but the X isn't the Roman "ecks"; The Cassell Dictionary of Word Histories explains that it is the Greek letter "chi" (pronounced with a k to rhyme with "eye"--k'eye). The x is simply a stand-in for "the first letter of Greek Khristos--Christ." Indeed, the Chi-Rho (CH-r--the first two syllables of "Christ") illumination can be seen in the ancient Irish manuscript of the Gospels, The Book of Kells, which is housed at Trinity College in Dublin. This work dates back to the ninth century. Of course, strictly speaking, Xmas" should still be pronounced "Christmas" because it's an abbreviation, not an alternative word.

There was too much anonymity in the urban world, a certain loss of identity.

Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous

May we never be too grown up to search the skies on Christmas Eve.

But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law were furious and began to discuss with one another what they might do to Jesus.

My Wife bought me my first Kindle (3G Keyboard) for Christmas in 2010 and I've rarely bought or read a dead tree edition since.

Also by Jimmy Carter Our Endangered Values Sharing Good Times The Hornet’s Nest The Nobel Peace Prize Lecture Christmas in Plains (illustrated by Amy Carter) An Hour Before Daylight The Virtues of Aging Sources of Strength: Meditations on

She looked like a Christmas present, and he suddenly loved the holidays.

For the first time, I was glad that Finn had badgered me into buying the Aston, because the car purred into high gear with no visible effort and hugged the road better than a creepy old uncle at Christmas, not wanting to let go of his pretty young relatives.

In 17th-century England, Christmas was one of the few times of year that religious Christians could let their hair down, eat mincemeat pies and go a-wassailing. They took it to extremes, with widespread games, feasts, drunkenness, promiscuity and other forms of excess. When the Puritans took control of the British Parliament in the mid-1640s, they tried to abolish the holiday and outlaw all of its customs in the face of a resistant public. But in America, the Puritans made it happen: In 1659, the Massachusetts General Court banned Christmas, punishing anyone caught drinking eggnog or kissing underneath the mistletoe with a five-shilling fine or a stint in the stocks. The laws were later overturned, but the bias against Christmas had wended its way into Massachusetts culture: In Boston, public schools were open on Christmas Day until 1870.

Regulating robotic aircraft Free the drones Drones have immense commercial potential—so long as regulators don’t try to tether them to the ground Dec 6th 2014 | From the print edition ONE of this year’s top-selling Christmas presents is a drone. For $50 you can buy a tiny quadcopter with a video camera, perfect for

We must march together, all out for God. The soldier who “cracks up” does not need sympathy or comfort as much as he needs strength. We are not trying to make the best of these days. It is our job to make the most of them. Now is not the time to follow God from “afar off.” This Army needs the assurance and the faith that God is with us. With prayer, we cannot fail. Be assured that this message on prayer has the approval, the encouragement, and the enthusiastic support of the Third United States Army Commander. With every good wish to each of you for a very Happy Christmas, and my personal congratulations for your splendid and courageous work since landing on the beach, I am G. S. Patton, Jr, Lieutenant General, Commanding Third United States Army.

It is commonplace to note that the Homo economicus model, so defi ned, does not accurately describe human agents. Like Homo economicus, we have preferences. Unlike Homo economicus, we have preferences directly relating to the welfare of others. Some may regard this as controversial. Psychological egoism is the thesis that all human behavior is purely self-regarding. Responding to obvious counterexamples, defenders of psychological egoism sometimes say we act in apparently other-regarding ways only because we reap “psychic” rewards from helping others. As philosophers well know, psychological egoism thus embellished becomes airtight at a cost of becoming literally inconsequential. It does not tell us that soldiers will never give their lives for their countries or that people will never make anonymous donations to charity. It does not predict that Ebenezer Scrooge will never buy Bob Cratchit a Christmas turkey. It offers no testable predictions. Instead, it avoids having false implications by having no implications whatsoever. It merely expresses a determination to stretch the concept of self-regard as far as necessary to fi t all behavior, no matter how diverse observed behavior actually turns out to be. Insofar as there is any real content to the claim that we get psychic rewards from helping others, we can admit that, of course, we tend to feel good about helping others. But this fact does not begin to suggest that our real objective is psychic benefit rather than other people’s welfare. On the contrary, there can be no psychic reward for helping others unless we care about others. Imagine Bob helping someone across the street and then saying to her, “Other things equal, I would rather you had been hit by a bus. Unfortunately, helping you is the price I have to pay in order to reap psychic rewards.” The fact that we get psychic rewards from helping others proves we are directly concerned with the welfare of others. The mark of a purely self-regarding person is not that he really wants to help others but rather that he really doesn’t. That is the obvious and much celebrated difference between Homo economicus and us.

In the Christmas season of 1822, Clement Clarke Moore, a prosperous New York scholar and landowner, wrote a series of verses in a lively anapestic rhythm for the amusement of his daughters.13 Legend has it that they were inspired by the portly figure of his fur-clad sleigh driver as he returned home from a shopping trip through the snowy streets. The poem appeared anonymously in the Troy Sentinel a year later under the title “Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas”:

family noun fam·i·ly,\’fam-le\ Family is who you say your family is --Anonymous  

Your Highlight on page 85 | location 1294-1297 | Added on Friday, 6 June 2014 10:28:20 your boss wants focus groups to prove that a new product is guaranteed to be a success, don’t bother. If the focus group likes it, they’re probably wrong. If your company wants you to pick one and only one product to feature this Christmas, start working on your résumé. You’re not going to invent a Purple Cow with those sorts of odds and that kind of pressure. Things that have to work rarely do anymore. ==========

finished! There’s this new guy everyone’s talking about … His book’s going to be a bestseller this Christmas. And you, Marcus? What have you got to give us for Christmas?

I believe there is good in the world, all of it flowing in one way or another from a loving God. But I believe there's another force as well, one every bit as real as the God I have prayed to my whole life, and that it works consciously to bring all our decent impulses to ruin. Not Satan, I don't mean Satan (although I believe he is real, too), but a kind of demon of discord, a prankish and stupid thing that laughs with glee when an old man sets himself on fire trying to light his pipe or when a much-loved baby puts its first Christmas toy in its mouth and chokes to death on it.

There’s a heart-wrenching scene in Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the old stop-motion Christmas TV special, that has always resonated with me. After his run-in with the Abominable Snowman, Rudolph and his buddies seek asylum on the Island of Misfit Toys, a haven for crappy, deformed, and unwanted toys presumably built by an elf with substance abuse issues. There’s the choo-choo train with square wheels, the water pistol that shoots jelly, the cowboy riding an ostrich, the white elephant with pink polka dots, the infelicitously named Charlie-in-the-Box. “Hey we’re all misfits, too!” Rudolph squeals to his newfound friends, and everyone breaks into song. I cry every time I see it.

President Obama heads to Hawaii for a Christmas and New Year's vacation with his family. For developments, visit postpolitics.com.

Challenger, Gray & Christmas Inc., the outplacement firm, estimates companies lose as much as $1.9 billion in wages paid to distracted and unproductive workers as they become glued to smart-phones, tablets, laptops and other devices to watch games, check scores and nurse their office pool brackets.

At 2 a.m. on Christmas morning, a D.C. police detective knocked on Karen Robinson’s door and asked to see a photo of her son Raymond. After studying it, he told her Raymond had shot at police officers and they’d returned fire, killing him. At around 10 a.m. that same day, Robinson got a call from Raymond, who evidently wasn’t dead. Police have apologized for their mistake.

William pondered what his next discovery might be. He knew that readers were vexed by the possibility that their Bard might have been Catholic. There is, after all, that suspicious reference to Purgatory by the ghost of Hamlet’s father. In an era when anti-Catholic legislation was favorably viewed by many, such papist skullduggery was improper in a national literary hero. And so, on Christmas Day of 1794, William presented his nation with a fine gift—Shakespeare’s Profession of Faith, in which he disowns any Catholic sympathies. His father was awed by the import of this, so much so that he could no longer keep the discoveries secret. All holiday frivolity was to be set aside now. —

Don’t worry, Ian. I totally protected your anonymity. I told her you were my brother.” “Great,” he pouted. “Now she’s going to ask me about you. And I told you—I’m friendly and pleasant and then I move on.” “You can do that. She’ll find it perfectly understandable.” “Oh? And why’s that?” “Well, she wondered about you. Said you ask for some heavy reading sometimes, but that you didn’t make much conversation.” “Oh, really?” “Yes,” Marcie explained. “I said you were brilliant, but not a very social animal. I said she shouldn’t expect a lot of chitchat from you, but you were perfectly nice, and there was no reason to be shy around you—you’re safer than you look.” “Is that so? And how did you convince her of that?” “Easy. I said you were an idiot savant—brilliant in literature and many other things, but socially you weren’t on your game.” “Oh, Jesus Christ!” She

Ruthy's got the curves of the Scalextric he had once gotten for Christmas.

As we think about Jesus as a baby, let’s not be afraid to look ahead to His purpose in coming. Christ came because only the purest sacrifice would do.

God shows Himself to ordinary people who are doing ordinary things. He knows where to find us, and when He does, beautiful things happen.

Let’s not enter this New Year carrying old burdens. Wouldn’t we rather have new blessings instead of old baggage? This is the perfect time. Let the old pass away. In Christ we are new creations created for new things. Let’s prepare our hearts to receive them.

I am happy when I eat fresh fruit, when I burst out laughing, when I discover a new song, when I finish a good book, when I wake up and feel relaxed. I’m glad to have friends, family, a home, food when I’m hungry, hot water when I shower. I love being able to live and see the seasons change, to have gifts at Christmas and at my birthday, to travel sometimes, to have a good education and a great access to culture. I’m flattered when people compliment me, when people smile at me, when people are polite to me. There are so many things that make life so simple and easy and I will always think about them more than all the bad things that will happen to me. I do not have time to be sad every day and ungrateful; I have every reason in the world to be happy.

Her grandparents, born during the war, were scarred by rationing. They had turned having to “go without” into an art and they were destined to hoard all their life. They hoarded not only the present (anyone who stepped inside the larder would see that) but also the past with newspapers, photos, Christmas cards all kept, as well as more anonymous items such as old tennis balls, empty tobacco tins, and a large collection of floppy disks from the eighties.

You may say we made a mistake placing the birth of Jesus on December 25th. Consider this: in 3 B.C., December 25th was the eighth day of Hanukkah, the day when the greatest gift is given.... Early Christians would not have made up the date, or used a pagan festival date...the date was chosen by people who remembered.

Man, that was like Christmas and Thanksgiving got high and had themselves an orgy with July 4’s hot sister.

Love is the stuff that’s left in the room after all the Christmas presents are unwrapped.”  ~ Anonymous 5-year old

Dear guy who I used to know, I wish you never took me to the movies in my favorite cinema. I wish you never took me to my favorite restaurant. I wish you never spent christmas with me. I wish you never took me to Amsterdam. I wish you never kissed and hugged me in my room. I wish you never told me that you loved me at my favorite spot in my hometown. I wish you never gave me my favorite book for my birthday. You’re gone now, but all my favorite places and things still remind me of you. They aren’t my favorite places and things anymore. Anonymous

No worries about a thing. There are ghastly things I won't do. Sure wish I could have been useful in someway. I haven't really had a birthday or christmas or things like that since my teens. I think I just needed to live a little, but that is alright, I have come to terms with my fate. No worries.

Have you noticed my fir?' asked the professor. Jessica emerging from the sparse and anonymous forests of her imaginings, misunderstood him. Fur? Was he speaking of his own body hair? Was he perhaps a werewolf? Or was he drawing attention to some unappreciated mink, ocelot or garment of beaver? ". . . planted it years ago,' he was saying. 'Whipped off the tinsel and the gewgaws, stuck it in the garden and now it's nearly sixty feet tall.' Ah, though Jessica, reassured - a fir. She could identify Christmas trees.

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Thanks to their anonymous benefactor, her parents had bought a large enough turkey to invite their elderly neighbors to join them.

All royalties from this edition of Chip Crockett’s Christmas Carol will go to Autism Speaks in Anne Marie Murphy’s name. You can learn more about this organization, or contribute individually to Anne Marie’s tribute page, at the links below. Elizabeth Hand General information on Autism Speaks Anne Marie Murphy’s tribute page