Hallmark Card Quotes

Wow, Cross. I think you missed your calling. Screw demon hunting: you should clearly be writing Hallmark cards.

You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known. I want to be with you…really be with you. Only you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. And I know I sound like a freaking Hallmark card, but it’s true. I’ve never wanted all the things I want to have when I’m with you.

It had been so good to see his enemy again. Positively heartwarming. Hallmark really needed to start up a line of revenge cards, the kind that let you reach out to those you were going to come after with a vengeance. - Lash

No matter what you feel is holding you back in life, you can attempt anything. Repeat that motivational cup sentence until it gets in your gut and doesn’t sound like something stupid on a Hallmark card, because it is the basis for anything that will make you happy in this world.

I went to Hallmark, but they don’t sell corridors there. I did, however, find a card that perfectly summed up our relationship. The card was blank.

Does Hallmark make a “Sorry I tried to drink your blood and touched you in a vaguely inappropriate manner” card? I settled for “How much do you remember?

It was moving, but so absurd that I nearly laughed out loud. I imagined a new line of Hallmark cards: "Thank you for not killing my boyfriend, even if it risks killing you.

So far as I knew, Hallmark didn’t make a “Sorry I Interrupted Your Oral Sex” card.

You think I don't know?' I heard Seth say in a smug, knowing way. 'That I didn't know this entire time I've been gone?' 'Know what?' Aiden sounded surprisingly calm. Seth laughed softly. 'She may be here with you, right now, but that's just a moment in time in the big scheme of things. And all moments end, Aiden. Yours will, too.' I wanted to throw open the door and tell Seth to shut up. 'Sounds like something on the back of a twisted Hallmark card,' replied Aiden.

I love him, I truly do. I feel it in my bones, in my soul, with all my heart. It's just like all those sentiments that I've read about in the past in those Hallmark cards.

Now, wait a second,’ said Annabeth. ‘That’s not what either of us said. In fact, I would say that you and Nico have one big advantage.’ Percy nodded. ‘You two have each other.’ Nico squinted at him. ‘Um … okay? What does that mean? Besides sounding like a cheesy Hallmark card.’ ‘It’s exactly what it sounds like,’ said Annabeth. ‘Because that cheesiness is what’s going to make the journey survivable.

I know, I know. They should make a hallmark card for that experience since it’s so cliché: “Whoops, sorry your high school boyfriend can’t keep it in his pants… here’s a cute puppy wearing a bowtie.

Hallmark didn’t make ‘sorry your dad was a piece of shit’ cards. Though, given the prevalence of shit dads out there, maybe they were really missing out on something.

Perhaps it is a secret yearning of all Hallmark employees to use the phrase 'you big fat pain in the butt' in an anniversary card.

It will never belong in a Hallmark card, but I drove a car into a house and killed a man for you. You chained me up for days and I still wanted to come back and talk over our darkly sordid, slightly kinky, and a lot warped relationship. Face it, you're stuck with me.

Psychedelic experiences are notoriously hard to render in words; to try is necessarily to do violence to what has been seen and felt, which is in some fundamental way pre- or post-linguistic or, as students of mysticism say, ineffable. Emotions arrive in all their newborn nakedness, unprotected from the harsh light of scrutiny and, especially, the pitiless glare of irony. Platitudes that wouldn't seem out of place on a Hallmark card flow with the force of revealed truth. Love is everything. Okay, but what else did you learn? No - you must not have heard me; it's everything! Is a platitude so deeply felt still just a platitude? No, I decided. A platitude is precisely what is left of a truth after it has been drained of all emotion. To resaturate that dried husk with feeling is to see it again for what it is: the loveliest and most deeply rooted of truths, hidden in plain sight.

And by the way, you really do suck in the romance department. Hallmark will never put that last paragraph on a card.

Daughter A sprinkle of sparkle, A dazzle of sweet, A flutter of cute, From your head to your feet.

Affectionate violence. For when a hug just won't do. That's a Hallmark card for you.

She wished she had a set of greeting cards at the ready, but Hallmark probably didn’t make any that said Thank you for giving up your life so that me and my friends could escape! It was SO appreciated. XOXO!

Oh,Mercer," he murmured against my temple once we'd come up for air, "we are so screwed." I pressed my face against his neck, breathing him in. "I know." "So what do we do?" Reluctantly, I tried to move away. It was hard to think when he was so close to me. "If we were good people, we'd never see each other again." His arms locked around my waist, pulling me back. "Okay,well, that's not happening. Plan B?" I smiled up at him, feeling ridiculously giddy for someone on the verge of ruining her life. "I don't have one.You?" He shook his head. "Nothing.But...look. I've spent basically my whole life pretending to be someone I'm not, faking some feelings, hiding others." Reaching down, he clasped my hand and lifted it so that our joined hands were trapped between our chests. "This thing with us is the only real thing I've had in a long time.You're the only real thing." He raised our hands and kissed my knuckles. "And I'm done pretending I don't want you." I had read a lot about swooning in the romance novels Mom had tried to hide from me,but I'd never felt in danger of doing it until now. Which was why a snarky comment was definitely called for. "Wow,Cross.I think you missed your calling.Screw demon hunting: you should clearly be writing Hallmark cards." His face broke into that crooked grin that was maybe my favorite sight in the whole world. "Shut up," he muttered before lowering his head and kissing me again. "Why is it," I said against his lips several moments later, "that we're always kissing in gross, dirty places like cellars and abandoned mills?" He laughed, pressing kisses to my jaw, then my neck. "Next time it'll be a castle, I promise.This is England, after all. Can't be too hard to find one.

They did a study and found that countless men would choose gambling over love if given the chance. Even more would choose pornography over love if given the chance. We are cavemen; and it seems like that will never change. I wonder if the men they studied have ever really been in love? I wonder how corporations will use this information to their advantage? “Hallmark cards and boxes of Fanny May chocolates will save humanity,” or something to the effect. It depresses me to think about it.

Frey winced. "Hello, Sumarbrander. I didn't mean to ignore you." "Yeah, yeah. Well, Magnus here is going to get Bragi to write an epic poem about me!" "Frey raised an eyebrow. "You are?" "Uh -" "That's right!" Jack huffed. "Frey never got Bragi to write an epic poem about me! The only thing he ever gave me was a stupid Hallmark Sword's Day card." Added to my mental notes: there was such a thing as Sword's Day. I silently cursed the greeting-card industry.

You told me I was part of the clan, that I was one of you. You told me you’d protect me, treasure me, and that no one would ever hurt me again. You told me we’d have eternity together, like a freaking Hallmark card!

If each day is a gift, I'd like to know where to return Mondays!

Too bad Hallmark doesn’t make a card that says, Sorry, your wife is undead.

Get Well Soon. People sent me get well soon cards while I was in a mental hospital. There were fluffy little bunnies, floaty rainbows, and even a religious card. I could understand that Hallmark probably doesn’t make “Get Sane Soon” cards, but still. Was I not well before? Am I well now? Who decides?

Her words were generically profound, like a Hallmark card I’d skim over to get to the check.

Not really. It’s a just a change of address. You moved into my heart a long time ago. That’s some fuckin’ progress for you.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he laughed. “Fuck me. I’m a Hallmark card.

This time of year," she said, "people’s consciences gnaw at them. They give away truckloads of canned goods and quote Dickens and wring their hands over the ‘less fortunate.’" We boarded the Metro and took seats perpendicular to each other. "But God forbid anyone should address why they’re poor in the first place, or try to change the structures that keep them poor. Then the ‘less fortunate’ turn into ‘welfare queens’ and ‘derelicts.’ But if I were a lobbyist whoring on behalf of some transnational corporation, I’d never hear the word ‘derelict.’" "So when it comes to taking care of poor people," I said, "if Mother Teresa is the Hallmark card, then you’re the electric bill.

I glanced out of my window at the grime and decay of Temptation, comparing it to Shannon’s golden world, good ole Willow’s Corner. In her pricey neighborhood, red brick colonials stood tall, capped with a thick down of milk-white snow. Chimney smoke made the quiet setting look warm and friendly—like a f*cking Hallmark card. But I knew better. Behind those fancy doors, with their brass knockers and deceitful doormats that had the nerve to say, ‘Welcome,’ were the same vicious snobs who’d looked down their noses at me earlier." -- Trace Dawson, Within Temptation

I forgave them when they dismissed me, showed violence, cheated. It was all I knew to do, in the absence of tenderness and carefulness and devotion and all the other words that appear inside Hallmark cards—there, they are so often nouns, like objects that you can pick up or point to.

Nick,” she sighed. “It will never belong in a Hallmark card, but I drove a car into a house and killed a man for you. You chained me up for days and I still wanted to come back and talk over our darkly sordid, slightly kinky, and a lot warped relationship. Face it, you’re stuck with me.

I’m seeing someone.” He grinned sheepishly. “Well, not officially, but we’re screwing around every chance we get.” “Oh, that’s … uh … wonderful.” Hallmark needed to make a card that said: I’m positively thrilled you’re getting laid!

It’s a lot better to sound like Ernest Hemingway than like Aunt Bethune, who thinks Hallmark greeting cards contain the best poetry in America.

I felt like I needed to do something special for her to show my appreciation. It wasn't like Hallmark had a card that read 'Thanks for destroying your vag with my spawn.' So I had to come up with something else.

Damn, I wasn’t a woman and I wasn’t real stoked at the idea of my fun house turning into an escape hatch. I felt like I needed to do something special for her to show my appreciation. It wasn’t like Hallmark had a card that read ‘Thanks for destroying your vag with my spawn

At the time, I couldn’t relate to some of the Asian American fiction and poetry I came across. It seemed, for the lack of a better word, inauthentic, as if it were staged by white actors. I thought maybe English was the problem. It was certainly a problem for me. English tuned an experience that should be in the minor key to a major key; there was an intimacy and melancholy in Korean that were lost when I wrote in English, a language which I, from my childhood, associated with customs officers, hectoring teachers, and Hallmark cards. Even after all those years since I learned English, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that to write anything was to fill in a blank or to recite back the original.

The reduction of anguish to Hallmark-card hurt. The

She wondered if Hallmark made a card for women like her—“Happy Valentine’s Day. One more year celebrating your spinsterhood.

Hallmark didn’t make ‘sorry your dad was a piece of shit’ cards.

God didn’t give us His Word to use like a weapon or some kind of Hallmark card we can pass across the fence and keep some distance. It is a weapon, but one designed for use against our enemy, not against our sisters. It is meant for encouragement, not for pat answers in the midst of real pain. Just because something is true doesn’t mean you must voice that truth in all circumstances.

My ducks give me eggs, and I took two of those eggs and nurtured them under a dome to produce two ducklings. In a way, I am their mother, and I think Hallmark should make a special card to honor me.

One afternoon in the fall of 2015, while I was writing this book, I was driving in my car and listening to SiriusXM Radio. On the folk music station the Coffee House, a song came on with a verse that directly spoke to me—so much so that I pulled off the road as soon as I could and wrote down the lyrics and the singer’s name. The song was called “The Eye,” and it’s written by the country-folk singer Brandi Carlile and her bandmate Tim Hanseroth and sung by Carlile. I wish it could play every time you open these pages, like a Hallmark birthday card, because it’s become the theme song of this book. The main refrain is: I wrapped your love around me like a chain But I never was afraid that it would die You can dance in a hurricane But only if you’re standing in the eye. I hope that it is clear by now that every day going forward we’re going to be asked to dance in a hurricane, set off by the accelerations in the Market, Mother Nature, and Moore’s law. Some politicians propose to build a wall against this hurricane. That is a fool’s errand. There is only one way to thrive now, and it’s by finding and creating your own eye. The eye of a hurricane moves, along with the storm. It draws energy from it, while creating a sanctuary of stability inside it. It is both dynamic and stable—and so must we be. We can’t escape these accelerations. We have to dive into them, take advantage of their energy and flows where possible, move with them, use them to learn faster, design smarter, and collaborate deeper—all so we can build our own eyes to anchor and propel ourselves and our families confidently forward.

Many potential readers will skip the shopping cart or cash-out clerk because they have seen so many disasters reported in the news that they’ve acquired a panic mentality when they think of them. “Disasters scare me to death!” they cry. “I don’t want to read about them!” But really, how can a picture hurt you? Better that each serve as a Hallmark card that greets your fitful fevers with reason and uncurtains your valor. Then, so gospeled, you may see that defeating a disaster is as innocently easy as deciding to go out to dinner. Remove the dread that bars your doors of perception, and you will enjoy a banquet of treats that will make the difference between suffering and safety. You will enter a brave new world that will erase your panic, and release you from the grip of terror, and relieve you of the deadening effects of indifference —and you will find that switch of initiative that will energize your intelligence, empower your imagination, and rouse your sense of vigilance in ways that will tilt the odds of danger from being forever against you to being always in your favor. Indeed, just thinking about a disaster is one of the best things you can do —because it allows you to imagine how you would respond in a way that is free of pain and destruction. Another reason why disasters seem so scary is that many victims tend to see them as a whole rather than divide them into much smaller and more manageable problems. A disaster can seem overwhelming when confronted with everything at once —but if you dice it into its tiny parts and knock them off one at a time, the whole thing can seem as easy as eating a lavish dinner one bite at a time. In a disaster you must also plan for disruption as well as destruction. Death and damage may make the news, but in almost every disaster far more lives are disrupted than destroyed. Wit­ness the tornado that struck Joplin, Missouri, in May 2011 and killed 158 people. The path of death and destruction was less than a mile wide and only 22 miles long —but within thirty miles 160,000 citizens whose property didn’t suffer a dime of damage were profoundly disrupted by the carnage, loss of power and water, suspension of civic services, and inability to buy food, gas, and other necessities. You may rightfully believe your chances of dying in a disaster in your lifetime may be nearly nil, but the chances of your life being disrupted by a disaster in the next decade is nearly a sure thing. Not only should you prepare for disasters, you should learn to premeditate them. Prepare concerns the body; premeditate concerns the mind. Everywhere you go, think what could happen and how you might/could/would/should respond. Use your imagination. Fill your brain with these visualizations —run mind-movies in your head —develop a repertoire —until when you walk into a building/room/situation you’ll automatically know what to do. If a disaster does ambush you —sure you’re apt to panic, but in seconds your memory will load the proper video into your mobile disk drive and you’ll feel like you’re watching a scary movie for the second time and you’ll know what to expect and how to react. That’s why this book is important: its manner of vivifying disasters kickstarts and streamlines your acquiring these premeditations, which lays the foundation for satisfying your needs when a disaster catches you by surprise.

Watching the Sound of Music is like being beaten to death with a Hallmark card.

Ideal World" I thought I'd found myself today No one's noticed things are okay I took a walk down the street Found nothing beneath my feet I feel safest in knowing that I am true When I look in your eyes the idea of you Put me on a food stamp and a hallmark card Tranquilize me with your ideal world I was taught what to believe Now I'm only certain that no one is free Tranquilize me with your ideal world

It’s true. We’re like a walking Hallmark card, full of quotes and bible verses. We make people feel like they’ve been touched by an angel.

That my husband stopped drinking with me was powerfully romantic, even if Hallmark doesn’t have a card for it. Or maybe they do. It saved our marriage, or at least saved us from the stupid fights that didn’t need to happen. Things said that didn’t deserve to be said because it was the alcohol talking, not the heart.

Funny . . . all of that was well, duh when it came to weapons. Why hadn’t it dawned on him that matings were the same? Rolling his eyes at himself, he thought, Christ, maybe Hallmark would be open to establishing a line of medieval-inspired Valentine’s Day cards, some kind of a Holly-Goth-Lightly kind of thing. He’d be frickin’ perfect for supplying content.

I know, right? I should totally write Hallmark cards for a living.

The world can make you think that love can be picked up at a garage sale or enveloped in a Hallmark card. But the kind of love that God created and demonstrated is a costly one because it involves sacrifice and presence. It’s a love that operates more like a sign language than being spoken outright.

The world can make you think that love can be picked up at a garage sale or enveloped in a Hallmark card. But the kind of love that God created then demonstrated is a costly one because it involves sacrifice and presence.

...metaphors are the deep end, are Hallmark cards, are crowded train cars, are trap doors.

Joan told her, “Knock it off, Marsh; you don’t always have to be such a putz.” Marsha, still leaning onto the sink, told them, “You guys and your always-must-make-nice crap. “Mincing around with your damned fresh coffee, playing Little Miss Nicey-Poo alla time. The charming hostess with all her non-threatening jokes, never hurting anyone’s feelings. Sitting around trying to sort out the karmic implications of sneezing on the burglar who just shot your dog. Fuck it! Some things you just can’t Om away.” Clarice’s smile had frozen in place, but her eyes belied her terror. She didn’t understand what was going on, but tried to calm the waters anyway. “You send out love; you get love back,” she said. Marsha finally turned toward them all, and it wasn’t pretty. “Great. You can put that on a Hallmark card and feed it to the goats.” She turned toward Paulette. Paulette said nothing. She didn’t dare look too deeply inside this rabid anti-Christian standing before her. She was horrified that she might find herself looking back. - From “The Gardens of Ailana” handbook for healers & mystics

It was a silly idea. Homemade brownies for the bouncer who’d pulled Eric off of me? It was all I could think of to thank him, because I was pretty sure Hallmark didn’t have a ‘thanks for saving me from sexual assault’ section of greeting cards. - Viv

What the fuck would he even say? Hallmark didn’t make ‘sorry your dad was a piece of shit’ cards. Though, given the prevalence of shit dads out there, maybe they were really missing out on something.

I’m not expecting a Hallmark card, for fuck’s sake. A few words scribbled on a Taco Bell napkin would suffice.

Then there’s the sex business. For example, there are persistent rumors that Bush has girlfriends. Remember that “power is the ultimate aphrodisiac,” look at Barbara, and there are three possibilities: George is a normal male attracted to younger women and he cheats; George chooses to have sex exclusively with a woman who looks like a Hallmark greeting card grandmother; George is a eunuch. Think about it—which George would you want running the country?

UMMO differs from Meier and the other cults in one very significant way. All of the other outer space messages peddled by “contactees” have low-to-zero information content.* They say nothing new. They have all the philosophic, scientific and literary value of Hallmark cards.

But I could kiss Texas to oblivion and back, without coming up for air. My thoughts sounded like a dated Hallmark card, but that didn’t make them any less true. Or any less goddamn disturbing, for that matter.

Being ‘in love’ is a transitory state—a passing fancy designed to sell Hallmark cards for Valentine’s Day.

There’s nothing nicer than unexpected appreciation. Hallmark doesn’t make a card for everything, so sometimes we make a judgment call. No, I don’t mean texting. My motto is: if you’re grateful, get a pen.

Follow-up Call (Script) Seller: “Hello Mr. Prospect, my name is Tom Freese, and I’m the regional manager for KnowledgeWare in Kansas City. I wanted to contact you about the CASE application development seminar we are hosting at IBM’s Regional Headquarters on August 26. Do you remember receiving the invitation we sent you? (Pause for a response) “Frankly, we are expecting a record turnout—over one hundred people, including development managers from Sprint, Hallmark Cards, Pepsi Co., Yellow Freight, Kansas Power & Light, the Federal Reserve Bank, Northwest Mutual Life, American Family Life, St. Luke’s Hospital, Anheuser-Busch, MasterCard, American Express, Worldspan, and United Airlines, just to name a few. “I wanted to follow up because we haven’t yet received an RSVP from your company, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t get left out.” Granted, this was a highly positioned approach, but it was also 100 percent accurate. I wanted prospects to know that IBM was endorsing this event. I also wanted to let them know that I expected “everyone else” to participate. I accomplished this by rattling off an impressive list of marquee company names that we were “expected” to attend. Most importantly, I wanted to make sure that they didn’t get left out.

The logical mind tries to remind itself that sometimes you must suffer in order to feel better. But the body has its own memory: It remembers who hurt it. On an irrational level, I felt wronged by those whom I saw as having “poisoned” me (people in lab coats, phlebotomists, my mother) and by those who encouraged me to think positively about it (friends, Hallmark cards, the “cancer books” section of Barnes & Noble). Finding the silver lining felt like part of the punishment.

Felix could sound like a Hallmark card, like boxed inspiration, but he was earnest enough to make you fall for it.

I’d had boyfriends before. One-night stands, even. But I’d never come close to imagining life with someone else until that moment. When I saw him, I pictured our first night together, our wedding, our honeymoon, our children. Until that moment, the idea of love had always felt very manufactured to me. A Hallmark ploy. A marketing scheme for greeting card companies. I had no interest in love.

She wasn’t certain how she should phrase her opinion about the appearance of her fake boyfriend’s nipples. There was no Hallmark card for something like this.

With no money, no home and none of my things? That’s the biggest bunch of Hallmark greetings-card self-help crap I’ve ever heard.

You could start by saying you’re sorry.” He laughs. It’s depreciating and lacking in humor but that’s how far this has gone. “An apology seems pretty fucking weak, bro. I mean, Hallmark doesn’t make a card for shit like this.

Rousseau’s legacy is vast. It includes Hallmark cards, Hollywood tearjerkers, heart-shaped emojis, and tell-all memoirs. If you’ve ever said, “I need a good cry,” you can thank Rousseau. If you’ve ever said, “Use your imagination,” you’re being Rousseauvian. If, in the heat of an argument, you’ve actually uttered the words “I don’t care if it makes no sense, it’s how I feel,” Rousseau is your man. If you’ve ever answered heartbreak with a long and angry walk, Rousseau. If your spouse has ever dragged you on a ten-mile trek on a damp, cold day, because “it will be good for you,” you can thank, or curse, Rousseau. Because of him, we think and feel differently, and we think about our feelings differently.

And I know I sound like a freaking Hallmark card, but it’s true. I’ve never wanted all the things I want to have when I’m with you.

So what you’re saying is you never want any kindness, empathy, or sympathy from me. Right, if I want sympathy, I’ll get it from Hallmark cards in a dose I can handle.

There are no secrets here, babe. We’ve been best friends since before we had pubes.” I say drily, “How touching. I can see the Hallmark card now.

He tried out a smile. Widened it. His cheeks felt like they were going to crack. Yeah, okay, so he wasn’t exactly Hallmark-card material.

I’ll pass. Puking in public isn’t a good look for me.” She scoffs. “I know for a fact you’ve never puked in your life. You have zero gag reflex.” “That’s a very strange thing to know about me.” “There are no secrets here, babe. We’ve been best friends since before we had pubes.” I say drily, “How touching. I can see the Hallmark card now.

As we’ve seen earlier, the hallmark of an admirable poker player is that he plays the best regardless of his hands. In the end, not the one with the objectively best cards, but the one who plays his cards the best, wins. You don’t get to choose the hands you’re dealt, only how you want to play them. Your hands in poker as in life are indifferent, learn to accept them equally, without judging. If you can do that, if you can accept rather than resist what happens, then you will no longer be dependent upon things being in a certain way.

Everyone wants their words to come out like prose at the end of someone’s life. Like flowers at a funeral. Perfectly white without brown spots. Six dozen roses coiffed to perfection spread all over the bed like a stock image on a hallmark card.

Love, friendship, loyalty, kindness—these are all the emotions which we applaud, emotions which have been immortalized in the bad couplets of Hallmark Cards and in the verses (I don’t dare call it poetry) of Leonard Nimoy.

Bob Goff, the craziest lawyer, love activist, world-changer I know, and the delightful author of Love Does, says this: The world can make you think that love can be picked up at a garage sale or enveloped in a Hallmark card. But the kind of love that God created and demonstrated is a costly one because it involves sacrifice and presence. It’s a love that operates more like a sign language than being spoken outright. . . . The brand of love Jesus offers is . . . more about presence than undertaking a project. It’s a brand of love that doesn’t just think about good things, or agree with them, or talk about them . . . Love does.1

almost like a Hallmark card—when you care enough to notify the police about my disappearance.

Back in the eighties, the journalist Richard Rhodes nailed the place with just two words: Cupcake Land. To the irritation of local leaders, the nickname has stuck. Cupcake Land is a metropolis built entirely according to the developer's plan, without the interference of angry proles or ethnic pols as in nearby Kansas City. Cupcake Land encourages no culture but that which increases property values; supports no learning but that which burnishes the brand; hears no opinions but those that will further fatten the cupcake elite; tolerates no rebellion but that expressed in haircuts and piercings and alternative rock. You know what it's like even though you haven't been there. Smooth jazz. Hallmark cards. Applebees. Corporate Woods. (49)

The Hallmark Hall of Fame has become the grandfather of all prestige shows, a dignified though increasingly expensive promotion for the slogan that was a standard even in 1948: Remember—a Hallmark Card, when you care enough to send the very best.

He tells the kids not to expect to get presents on holidays, that he buys them things all year round. He says Hallmark and retailers created holidays. He curses when he gets cards and gifts from them. And at the last minute, he invariably feels guilty and rushes out, buys impulsively whatever’s left in the stores. Spends more than he would have if he’d planned. Then he’s furious, sputtering, all over again.” —Marge, Seattle, WA

The world can make you think that love can be picked up at a garage sale or enveloped in a Hallmark card. But the kind of love that God created and demonstrated is a costly one because it involves sacrifice and presence.

I discovered a lot of writers in the Modern Library editions, which were sold in a Hallmark-card store, and I used to save up my allowance and would buy them all. I even bought real lemons like Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations [laughing]. I thought everything in the Modern Library must be great.

[Re: Valentine's Day cards] On these little visual interpretations, no emblem is so common as the heart, — that little three-cornered exponent of all our hopes and fears, — the bestuck and bleeding heart ; it is twisted and tortured into more allegories and affectations than an opera hat. What authority we have in history or mythology for placing the head-quarters and metropolis of God Cupid in this anatomical seat rather than in any other, is not very clear ; but we have got it, and it will serve as well as any other. Else we might easily imagine, upon some other system which might have prevailed for any thing which our pathology knows to the contrary, a lover addressing his mistress, in perfect simplicity of feeling, " Madam, my liver and fortune are entirely at your disposal," or putting a delicate question, "Amanda, have you a midriff' to bestow?" But custom has settled these things, and awarded the seat of sentiment to the aforesaid triangle, while its less fortunate neighbours wait at animal and anatomical distance.

I don't believe you. We're fleeing for our lives in the rain-swept gloom of 16th century Scotland and you're still banging on about your bloody stupid bloody car?" "Seriously?" he said. "You think I'm not going to be referring to it at regular intervals for the rest of your life? That I'm not going to drag it into every argument we ever have? That I'm ever going to let you forget? There will be 'Driving The Car Into The Lake' anniversaries. I shall commission a special card from Hallmark. There will be celebration cakes. We may even get a telegram from the King.

With this bold stroke, they re-politicized International Women’s Day. Brushing aside the tacky baubles of depoliticization—brunches, mimosas, and Hallmark cards—the strikers have revived the day’s all-but-forgotten historical roots in working-class and socialist feminism.