Fascinating Christmas Quotes

In regard to propaganda the early advocates of universal literacy and a free press envisaged only two possibilities: the propaganda might be true, or the propaganda might be false. They did not foresee what in fact has happened, above all in our Western capitalist democracies - the development of a vast mass communications industry, concerned in the main neither with the true nor the false, but with the unreal, the more or less totally irrelevant. In a word, they failed to take into account man's almost infinite appetite for distractions. In the past most people never got a chance of fully satisfying this appetite. They might long for distractions, but the distractions were not provided. Christmas came but once a year, feasts were "solemn and rare," there were few readers and very little to read, and the nearest approach to a neighborhood movie theater was the parish church, where the performances though frequent, were somewhat monotonous. For conditions even remotely comparable to those now prevailing we must return to imperial Rome, where the populace was kept in good humor by frequent, gratuitous doses of many kinds of entertainment - from poetical dramas to gladiatorial fights, from recitations of Virgil to all-out boxing, from concerts to military reviews and public executions. But even in Rome there was nothing like the non-stop distractions now provided by newspapers and magazines, by radio, television and the cinema. In "Brave New World" non-stop distractions of the most fascinating nature are deliberately used as instruments of policy, for the purpose of preventing people from paying too much attention to the realities of the social and political situation. The other world of religion is different from the other world of entertainment; but they resemble one another in being most decidedly "not of this world." Both are distractions and, if lived in too continuously, both can become, in Marx's phrase "the opium of the people" and so a threat to freedom. Only the vigilant can maintain their liberties, and only those who are constantly and intelligently on the spot can hope to govern themselves effectively by democratic procedures. A society, most of whose members spend a great part of their time, not on the spot, not here and now and in their calculable future, but somewhere else, in the irrelevant other worlds of sport and soap opera, of mythology and metaphysical fantasy, will find it hard to resist the encroachments of those would manipulate and control it.

Of course we have a Tomorrow on the map…located east of Today and west of Yesterday…and we have no end of "times" in fairyland. Spring-time, long time, short time, new-moon time, good-night time, next time…but no last time, because that is too sad a time for fairyland; old time, young time…because if there is an old time there ought to be a young time, too; mountain time…because that has such a fascinating sound; night-time and day-time…but no bed-time or school-time; Christmas-time; no only time, because that also is too sad…but lost time, because it is so nice to find it; some time, good time, fast time, slow time, half-past kissing-time, going-home time, and time immemorial…which is one of the most beautiful phrases in the world.

Hercule Poirot stared hard at Superintendent Sugden’s moustache. Its luxuriance seemed to fascinate him.

I can become happy with the simplest things the most insignificant.. even the every day ones of every day. It is sufficient for me that weeks have Sundays and I am satisfied that years keep their Christmas for the very end that winters have stone houses dipped in snow that I know how to discover the hidden bitter herbs in their hiding places. It is enough for me that four people love me a lot.. It is enough for me that I love four people a lot.. that I spend my breath on them alone; that I am not afraid to remember; that I do not care if they remember me; that I can still cry and that I even sing..sometimes... that there is music which fascinates me and fragrances that enchant me..

Even now, after a lifetime of human companionship, I am hard-pressed to understand fully mankind's fascination with those little marks that they so carefully impress on sheets of paper.

Shannon’s nipples were sore from being sucked on, but the look of fascination and enjoyment on her husband’s handsome face more than made up for any discomfort. He reminded her of a kid at Christmas who’d gotten the toy he most wanted from Santa’s bag. He’d been sucking her nipples off and on—mostly on—for at least four hours. He’d been fucking her just as long, staying inside her even during his brief moments of rest.

When she was twenty three years old she met, at a christmas party, a young man from the Erewash Valley. Morel was then twenty-seven years old. He was well-set-up, erect and very smart. He had wavy, black hair that shone again, and a vigorous black beard that had never been shaved. His cheeks were ruddy, and his red moist mouth was noticeable because he laughed so often and so heartily. He had that rare thing, a rich, ringing laugh. Gertrude Coppard had watched him fascinated. He was so full of colour and animation, his voice ran so easily into comic grotesque, he was so ready and so pleasant with everybody... Walter Morel seemed melted away before her. She was to the miner that thing of mystery and fascination, a lady.

When Benjamin Bloom studied his 120 world-class concert pianists, sculptors, swimmers, tennis players, mathematicians, and research neurologists, he found something fascinating. For most of them, their first teachers were incredibly warm and accepting. Not that they set low standards. Not at all, but they created an atmosphere of trust, not judgment. It was, “I’m going to teach you,” not “I’m going to judge your talent.” As you look at what Collins and Esquith demanded of their students—all their students—it’s almost shocking. When Collins expanded her school to include young children, she required that every four-year-old who started in September be reading by Christmas. And they all were. The three- and four-year-olds used a vocabulary book titled Vocabulary for the High School Student. The seven-year-olds were reading The Wall Street Journal. For older children, a discussion of Plato’s Republic led to discussions of de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America, Orwell’s Animal Farm, Machiavelli, and the Chicago city council. Her reading list for the late-grade-school children included The Complete Plays of Anton Chekhov, Physics Through Experiment, and The Canterbury Tales. Oh, and always Shakespeare. Even the boys who picked their teeth with switchblades, she says, loved Shakespeare and always begged for more. Yet Collins maintained an extremely nurturing atmosphere. A very strict and disciplined one, but a loving one. Realizing that her students were coming from teachers who made a career of telling them what was wrong with them, she quickly made known her complete commitment to them as her students and as people. Esquith bemoans the lowering of standards. Recently, he tells us, his school celebrated reading scores that were twenty points below the national average. Why? Because they were a point or two higher than the year before. “Maybe it’s important to look for the good and be optimistic,” he says, “but delusion is not the answer. Those who celebrate failure will not be around to help today’s students celebrate their jobs flipping burgers.… Someone has to tell children if they are behind, and lay out a plan of attack to help them catch up.” All of his fifth graders master a reading list that includes Of Mice and Men, Native Son, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, The Joy Luck Club, The Diary of Anne Frank, To Kill a Mockingbird, and A Separate Peace. Every one of his sixth graders passes an algebra final that would reduce most eighth and ninth graders to tears. But again, all is achieved in an atmosphere of affection and deep personal commitment to every student. “Challenge and nurture” describes DeLay’s approach, too. One of her former students expresses it this way: “That is part of Miss DeLay’s genius—to put people in the frame of mind where they can do their best.… Very few teachers can actually get you to your ultimate potential. Miss DeLay has that gift. She challenges you at the same time that you feel you are being nurtured.

I recall when my youngest sister started to crawl. Papa insisted we have a party in the nursery, because his last little princess was up off the floor. I danced with him by standing on his shiny, tall boots.” “I can do that for you, you know.” “Let me dance on your boots?” She picked up a brush and tilted her head to the side so the mass of her hair fell over one shoulder. “Brush your hair.” He tossed the covers back, started across the room, and then caught sight of Sophie’s fascinated expression in the vanity mirror. He snatched the dressing gown from the bed and belted it snugly around his waist. When he stood directly behind her, she passed the brush back to him, letting their fingers barely touch. Ah, so she was teasing him. The subtle teasing of a woman who understood the value of anticipation, but teasing all the same. Vim smiled at her in the mirror. “You have gorgeous hair, Sophie Windham.” He drew the damp, curling length of it back over her shoulders in both of his hands and repeated the caress when she closed her eyes. “Shall I braid it?” “Please.” She opened her eyes. “Over the right shoulder, because I like to sleep on my left side.” “What

You don't have to like me, but I'd like to make working with me less difficult for you. Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it. But I'm not going anywhere." Sanna watched him say these words, giving her permission to set the rules- yet she could really only focus on his soft pink lips and how she wanted a cider that was precisely that color. It would be sweet and crisp and bubbly. Something you could drink and drink and never get enough of- each sip would reveal a different shade to the flavor, from a lush rose to a pale blush. She had to know what lips that color tasted like, so she leaned forward and kissed him. Barely a whisper, the briefest of touches on his fascinating lips, with a hint of the toasty cider they'd had with dinner. Her senses lit up like Christmas lights. She pulled back even faster than she'd leaned in. The surprise she saw on his face matched her own. "I don't know why I..." Her voice trailed off. Colors still crackled around her. Isaac moved an inch closer, leaning in to inhale near her ear, but he didn't touch her, didn't push her any further. His face was so close she could count the silver flecks in his beard. "I'm glad you did. I like you. You're interesting, smell unexpectedly like roses, and are obviously gifted." He waved a hand at the cidery as he took a shaky breath. "The few times I've made you laugh have made my days, and I hope to succeed at it again. If that will be a problem, let me know. And, Sanna, I give you permission to kiss me whenever you want.

Dear Padfoot, Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he looked so pleased with himself. I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You know it only rises about two feet off the ground, but he nearly killed the cat and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints there). Of course, James thought it was so funny, says he's going to be a great Quidditch player, but we've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we don't take our eyes off him when he gets going. We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda, who has always been sweet to us and who dotes on Harry. We were so sorry you couldn't come, but the Order's got to come first and Harry's not old enough to know it's his birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not to show it but I can tell — also, Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend, I thought he seemed down, but that was probably the news about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard. Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most amazing stories about Dumbledore, I'm not sure he'd be pleased if he knew! I don't know how much to believe, actually, because it seems incredible that Dumbledore could ever have been friends with Gellert Grindelwald. I think her mind's going, personally! Lots of love, Lily

It was true what Doc had said, that Christmas succeeds Christmas rather than the days it follows. That had become apparent to Smoky in the last few days. Not because of the repeated ritual, the tree sledded home, the antique ornaments lovingly brought out, the Druid greenery hung on the lintels. It was only since last Christmas that all that had become imbued for him with dense emotion, an emotion having nothing to do with Yuletide, a day which for him as a child had nothing like the fascination of Hallowe'en, when he went masked and recognizable (pirate, clown) in the burnt and smoky night. Yet he saw that it was an emotion that would cover him now, as with snow, each time the season came. She was the cause, not he to whom he wrote. "Any," he began again, "my desires this year are a little clouded. I would like one of those instruments you use to sharpen the blades of an old-fashioned lawn mower. I would like the missing volume of Gibbon (Vol. II) which somebody's apparently taken out to use as a doorstop or something and lost." He thought of listing publisher and date, but a feeling of futility and silence came over him, drifting deep. "Santa," he wrote, "I would like to be one person only, not a whole crowd of them, half of them always trying to turn their backs and run whenever somebody" - Sophie, he meant, Alice, Cloud, Doc, Mother; Alice most of all - "looks at me. I want to be brave and honest and shoulder my burdens. I don't want to leave myself out while a bunch of slyboots figments do my living for me." He stopped, seeing he was growing unintelligible. He hesitated over the complimentary close; he thought of using "Yours as ever," but thought that might sound ironic or sneering, and at last wrote only "Yours &c.," as his father always had, which then seemed ambiguous and cool; what the hell anyway; and he signed it: Evan. S. Barnable.

She was a fascinating character, to say the least. A pioneer and instigator of many weird and wooly projects and who liked to “instigate” you right along with her. Every village has one, and Doris was ours. A lively individual who was always throwing herself into some harebrained scheme or other, taking no prisoners as she pulled you into her wild world of wackiness. Doris’s “urgent” could mean anything from the need to raise money for lame goats to singing at the top of a living Christmas tree.

Anticipation is a fascinating thing. There’s nothing like the anticipation you experience the morning before Christmas or your birthday. Of course, there can be great disappointment following that anticipation, like when on that same birthday you get a flamethrower that doesn’t even work right.

Even though Mr Graham was a fascinating witness, the High Court hearing–just like the Cork Circuit Court libel action before it–suddenly began to revolve around Marie Farrell. The former west Cork shopkeeper, who had since relocated to her native Longford, was a core strategic element of Mr Bailey’s case. Her claims about making statements to the 2003 libel hearing under garda duress had been hugely damaging to An Garda Síochána. The High Court action would now hear precisely what she had seen on 23 December 1996 at Kealfadda Bridge–and why she had given evidence at Cork Circuit Court that she had later recanted. Mrs Farrell was called to offer evidence in December, just two weeks before the High Court suspended its hearings for the Christmas break. Her evidence was nothing short of extraordinary. She claimed a garda had exposed himself to her, that another garda had stripped naked in front of her and asked for sex, that gardaí had put her under unrelenting pressure to support an incriminating statement that undermined Mr Bailey’s key alibi–and had threatened her with arrest if she did not comply.

She looked at Julien before returning her gaze to Gabriel, who watched her unabashedly. Did her son not recognize the man, their savior? Did none of the boys remember their servant? He looked so much as he had all those years ago, though Rowena realized that he must be now, what six and thirty? He still had the long straight nose of his Gallic ancestors and the thick black hair, though he had acquired a few patches of gray at his temples. His eyes were pale greenish blue and framed by thick brows and lashes. He had high patrician cheekbones and a strong noble jaw, though he certainly was no nobleman. “Allow me to introduce the most celebrated man in all of England,” the countess said, finally indicating Gabriel. “This is a fellow Frenchman, Monsieur Lemarque. But he is better known as the French Fox.” Bastien gasped. “Good God, man, is that you?” He cut his gaze to his mother. Most of the family was aware of her fascination with the French Fox. She’d followed the reports of his feats of bravery religiously. The way he’d snatched innocent aristos—mothers and children, old men—from the blade of the guillotine was nothing short of heroic. He escaped even the most intricate traps the enemy laid for him, seemed to laugh in the face of danger, risked everything for men and women to whom he owed nothing. She was half in love with the mysterious spy already. And Gabriel was the French Fox. It all made sense now. Gabriel, the man who had once held her hand when they’d been hiding from revolutionaries—“Do not fear, duchesse. I will die before I allow these devils to so much as look at you.” Now Gabriel smiled thinly and glanced at Lady Winterson. “That was supposed to be our secret, my lady.” Rowena took a slow, shaky breath as heat flooded through her. His voice. That accent. Lady

They are already like you, my lady. They have that fascinating, unknowable quality.” Fascinating? Unknowable? Heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment curled up from Louisa’s middle. “His Grace used to call me his abacus.” This admission slipped out as Louisa noticed that Sir Joseph was smiling at her again. There was a wistful tenderness in his smile that made it difficult to draw a full breath. “You are not an abacus, Louisa Windham. Any man with eyes can deduce that.” He

Lady Jenny, your turn.” She passed her sketch pad over to him, feeling a pang of sympathy for accused criminals as they stood in the dock. And yet, she’d asked for this. Gotten together all of her courage to ask for this one moment of artistic communion. “Well,” Mr. Harrison said, “isn’t he a handsome fellow? What do you think, ladies?” “You look like a papa,” Fleur observed. “Though our papa doesn’t sketch. He reads stories.” “And hates his ledgers,” Amanda added. “Is my hair that long in back?” “Yes,” Jenny said, because she’d drawn not only Elijah Harrison’s hands, but all of him, looking relaxed, elegant, and handsome, with Amanda crouched at his side, fascinated with what he created on the page. “I look…” He regarded the sketch in silence, while Jenny heard a coach-and-four rumbling toward her vulnerable heart. “I look… a bit tired, slightly rumpled, but quite at home. You are very quick, Lady Genevieve, and quite good.” Quite good. Like saying a baby was adorable, a young gentleman well-mannered. “The pose was simple,” Jenny said, “the lighting uncomplicated, and the subject…” “Yes?” He was one of those men built in perfect proportion. Antoine had spent an entire class wielding a tailor’s measure on Mr. Harrison’s body, comparing his proportions to the Apollo Belvedere, and scoffing at the “mistakes” inherent in Michelangelo’s David. Jenny wanted to snatch her drawing from his hand. “The subject is conducive to a pleasing image.” He passed the sketch pad back, but Jenny had the sense that in some way, some not entirely artistic way, she’d displeased him. The disappointment was survivable. Her art had been displeasing men since she’d first neglected her Bible verses to sketch her brothers. “You

I owe my older brothers an entire education that had nothing to do with deportment or elocution.” He paused while stirring sugar into his tea. “Such as?” “How to fend off a bully, where to apply perfume.” She’d also learned that she could trust her brothers to have her best interests at heart, even if they were complete dunderheads about it. And she had learned that even her boisterous, indestructible brothers could die. “They told you where to apply perfume?” “Not willingly, of course. Little sisters eavesdrop and pick up on these things. Bartholomew remarked to Devlin that the nape of a certain chambermaid’s neck bore the scent of lavender water when he kissed her there. Bart sounded bemused to note it, as if the woman wore her scent that way exclusively to lure him closer.” Bartholomew had sounded besotted, but then he’d been besotted with life in all its fascinating details. “God help me if my little sisters take their education from my brothers.” Jenny

Babies are such fascinating creatures," said Anne dreamily. "They are what I heard somebody at Redmond call, 'terrific bundles of potentialities.'...

Stowing the body on the roof of the cabin so that the dogs could not get at it, we entered and held a council of war. The sailors emptied the; two fifty-pound sacks of nuggets on the table, and from this moment the Madness began to grow. Even Lucy, for all her impassive Indian nature, was so fascinated by the glittering heap that she could hardly cook dinner. After a few minutes of talk and conjecture, Innuit Kid returned with the information that the strangers had turned into the Stuart River. Confusion prevailed. Even the woman understood its import.

But don’t the wights get caught?” I said. “I mean, if they’re helping murder people, you’d think—” “Some do,” Emma said. “Wager you’ve heard of a few, if you follow the news. There was one fellow, they found him with human heads in the icebox and gibletty goodies in a stock pot over a low boil, like he was making Christmas dinner. In your time this wouldn’t have been so very long ago.” I remembered—vaguely—a sensationalized late-night TV special about a cannibalistic serial killer from Milwaukee who’d been apprehended in similarly gruesome circumstances. “You mean … Jeffrey Dahmer?” “I believe that was the gentleman’s name, yes,” said Millard. “Fascinating case. Seems he never lost his taste for the fresh stuff, though he’d not been a hollow for many years.

Merry Christmas, Dom.” I smiled at the feel of Logan’s fingers skimming over my head. Even after nine years together, he was still just as fascinated with my bald head as he’d ever been. “Merry Christmas, Logan,” I said softly. I

I never really felt Jo was right for Alex. She only wanted to go out with him because he was student body president.” You are so full of it, I thought. Images of red and white Christmas candy canes danced through my brain. I seized them and snapped their little striped necks. I flipped through my notebook, pretending to look for previously recorded information. “I understand he asked her to the prom.” “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Khandi said with a sniff. “But I’ll tell you this.” She leaned forward as if about to impart a great secret. “If Alex did ask her, it was because he felt sorry for her. But it totally backfired on him. I think that’s why Jo’s ghost is still here. She just can’t bear to let Alex go. Even she knows she’s a nobody without him.” Nobly, I resisted the impulse to stuff my notebook down her throat. “That’s an…interesting insight,” I said. “Oh, well,” Khandi said, sitting back and preening ever so slightly. “All the women in my family are like that.” “They know things and they have insights. Fascinating combination.

I collect butterflies. Not in a put the lotion in the basket style, just because I find them both fascinating and beautiful.

And you? Where did you grow up?’ he asked as he began to grind the beans with the pestle. ‘Oh, a place called Dorset, in the south of England,’ Bo said, watching, fascinated. She’d never had her coffee ground for her by hand before. ‘Nowhere as exciting as this.’ ‘I know Dorset.’ She looked up in surprise. ‘You do?’ ‘I once had an English girlfriend from there. Sherborne.’ ‘That’s not far from where I grew up,’ she said excitedly. ‘Do you know Wimborne?’ He stilled, seeming to think for a moment. ‘I think we went there once. A horse race.’ ‘Yes, at Badbury Rings. A point-to-point, we call it. We always used to go to that.’ She sighed happily at the memories as they rose, unbidden by this unexpected turn in the conversation. ‘Do you know I’ve been all over the world and never once met anyone who knew my home town?