Sunday Musings Quotes

Deciding to wait, Scott sat down with a pint away from the bar at a corner table and lit a cigarette. The clientele in there on Sunday afternoon were the same as most other afternoons. From middle-aged to old men, drinking and cursing at the world like it was the last bus which had just left the stop without them.

Oh God,” she moans, pressing her forehead into the wooden surface. “Does this feel like church to you?” I bring my hand down on her ass, and she tightens around me. “Save your prayers for Sunday, Little Nightmare, and say my name when my cock is inside you.

No matter how far I ran, how hard I fought, the leash was always there. Loose enough to keep me running in circles, but never enough to set me free.

My mother delayed my enrollment in the Fascist scouts, the Balilla, as long as possible, firstly because she did not want me to learn how to handle weapons, but also because the meetings that were then held on Sunday mornings (before the Fascist Saturday was instituted) consisted mostly of a Mass in the scouts' chapel. When I had to be enrolled as part of my school duties, she asked that I be excused from the Mass; this was impossible for disciplinary reasons, but my mother saw to it that the chaplain and the commander were aware that I was not a Catholic and that I should not be asked to perform any external acts of devotion in church. In short, I often found myself in situations different from others, looked on as if I were some strange animal. I do not think this harmed me: one gets used to persisting in one's habits, to finding oneself isolated for good reasons, to putting up with the discomfort that this causes, to finding the right way to hold on to positions which are not shared by the majority. But above all I grew up tolerant of others' opinions, particularly in the field of religion, remembering how irksome it was to hear myself mocked because I did not follow the majority's beliefs. And at the same time I have remained totally devoid of that taste for anticlericalism which is so common in those who are educated surrounded by religion. I have insisted on setting down these memories because I see that many non-believing friends let their children have a religious education 'so as not to give them complexes', 'so that they don't feel different from the others.' I believe that this behavior displays a lack of courage which is totally damaging pedagogically. Why should a young child not begin to understand that you can face a small amount of discomfort in order to stay faithful to an idea? And in any case, who said that young people should not have complexes? Complexes arise through a natural attrition with the reality that surrounds us, and when you have complexes you try to overcome them. Life is in fact nothing but this triumphing over one's own complexes, without which the formation of a character and personality does not happen.

And the difference was this, she mused: those who are twenty don’t know what it is like to be forty, whereas those who are forty know what it is like to be twenty. It was a bit like discussing a foreign country with somebody who has never been there. They are prepared to listen, but it’s not quite real for them.

Idolatry divides Christianity into a shopping mall of sects, each selling their own unique god package. Churches become like stores displaying their relevant music or practical teaching like sexily shaped mannequins. Churches advertise and put on great Sunday matinee shows to attract new customers, competing with other churches for congregants like other corporations compete for clients. This is what happens when faith becomes a set of concepts rather than a relational way of living. A concept makes a better product than a relationship.

childish. Thereupon Filomena excused herself, that she might put a clean shirt on Jacopone, and Odo was left to his melancholy musings. His mind had of late run much on economic abuses; but what was any philandering with reform to this close contact with misery? It was as though white hungry faces had suddenly stared in at the windows of his brightly-lit life. What did these people care for education, enlightenment, the religion of humanity? What they wanted was fodder for their cattle, a bit of meat on Sundays and a faggot on the hearth.

wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his tombstone," said Jerry. "Mrs. Davis would," giggled Faith. "She just watches us in church like a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seen her glare. I'll bet she boxed HIS ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn't offend her on any account or I'd have made a face at her, too!" "They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would never have his father again, even when her husband was dying," said Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like." "I liked their looks," said Faith. The manse children had been at the station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived. "I liked Jem's looks ESPECIALLY." "They say in school that Walter's a sissy," said Jerry. "I don't believe it," said Una, who had thought Walter very handsome. "Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me. Bertie's mother thought HE should have got the prize because of his name, but Bertie said he couldn't write poetry to save his soul, name or no name." "I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to school," mused Faith. "I hope the girls are nice. I don't like most of the girls round here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe twins look jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, but they don't. I think the red-haired one is the nicest." "I liked their mother's looks," said Una with a little sigh. Una envied all children their mothers. She had been only six when her mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh. "They say she isn't like other people," said Jerry. "Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up," said Faith. "She's taller than Mrs. Elliott." "Yes, yes, but it is inside—Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe

I get a kick out of cursing people for life on Sundays.

Who is happier, those who are aware, and doubt, or those who are sure of what they believe in, and have never doubted or questioned it? The answer, she had concluded, was that this had nothing to do with happiness, which came upon you like the weather, determined by your personlaity.

Loren Muse took out a pen. There was already a notebook on her desk. Lance Banner stood and remained silent. “When was the last time you saw Aimee Biel?” He knew better than to ask what happened again. Muse was going to play it her way. “Saturday night.” “What time?” “I guess between two and three a.m.” “So this would have been Sunday morning rather than Saturday night?” Myron bit back the sarcastic rejoinder. “Yes.

Under what circumstances,” she’d mused to Martin the hairdresser one Sunday morning in bed, “could you envision Jesus Christ, a humble carpenter, hawking rosaries at the Vatican Gift Shop?

The work was mind numbing yet somehow important. I was a tiny contributor to a large thing, bringing my offering under the watchful gaze of Almighty God. Chasing dust motes wasn’t as poetic as the gift of the little drummer boy, but it was the gift I had at the moment. I’m not sure what the elders would think of my musings. Daddy had always said the people were the church, but with it all empty and lemon-fresh scented, it felt more holy than it did on the usual Sunday, when it was full of powdery-cheeked ladies and men wearing suits. The quietness soothed me more than any choir. The stillness let me focus and actually see the play of light on stained glass windows. Without light, the windows would be as blank and lifeless as plain old regular, unsanctified panes.

briefly how she had managed to unlock the back door and why she should have seemed so resentful of him. She had, he decided, been musing and had made her way to this particular room for that purpose. Her pose over there by the window had betrayed as much and his sudden appearance breaking into her reflections, had startled her, so that, in a sense, her anger had been counterfeit. He remained standing where she had stood, wondering if she would circle the west wing and appear at the crest of the drive, but when he heard or saw something of her he fell to thinking about women in general and his relations with them in the past. His experience with women had been limited but although technically still a virgin he was not altogether innocent. There had been a very forward fourteen-year-old called Cherry, who had lived in an adjoining house in Croydon, when he came home for school holidays and Cherry had succeeded in bewitching but ultimately terrifying him, for one day when they were larking about in the stable behind her house, she had hinted at the mysterious differences between the sexes and when, blushing, he had encouraged her to elaborate, she had promptly hoisted her skirt and pulled down her long cotton drawers, whereupon he had fled as though the Devil was after him and had never sought her company again, although he watched her closely in church on successive Sundays, expecting any moment to see forked lightning descend on her in the middle of ‘For all the Saints’. Then there had been a little clumsy cuddling at Christmas parties, and after that a flaxen-haired girl called Daphne whom he had mooned over as an adolescent and had thought of a good deal in the Transvaal but now he had almost forgotten what Daphne looked like and had not recalled her name until now. Finally there had been an abortive foray

I’ll never be him,” I said, closing the Bible and setting it next to the stack of folders and notepads from school. She signed, “No. You’re not him. You’re more.” “I don’t know, Gabbs.” I laughed, staring at the Bible. “There’s a lot of him in there. Years of him. I don’t know if there’s room for anyone to be more. Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with loving you more. That would make your Grandma Bonnie so happy. But I can’t help but see him inked in the margins of your whole world and not feel like there’s no room for me.” She reached for my face, and I shook my head. “It’s fine, Gabby. You don’t have to make me feel better. I don’t know if you can. I’m just working on accepting it. Ya know? We’ll be fine. We’ll have a good life. We’ll laugh like we’ve always done. We’ll be there for each other. Raise a family and all that comes with that. I’m just …” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I guess I’m still young and stupid, and I want to be the muse for all your poems. I selfishly want my name to be in the margins of your books. But I’m not, and that’s fine. I’ll grow up and focus on more important things like our baby. But right now, I’m struggling to be the man you need instead of the boyfriend you didn’t want.” She flinched, and that wasn’t my intention. In fact, it wasn’t my intention to tell her that I looked inside her Bible. But she caught me, and I couldn’t lie. Before her tears escaped, she blotted the corners of her eyes while squeezing between my legs and her desk, resting her backside on the edge while I leaned back in her desk chair and laced my fingers behind my neck. She stared at me for the longest time, like I was a riddle she needed to solve. Then she grabbed a pen and notebook and started writing … and writing.