“How many Sundays – how many hundreds of Sundays like this – lay ahead of me? “Quiet, peaceful and lonely,” I said aloud to myself. On Sundays i didn't wind my spring.”

“Many wish for immortality who don't know how to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon. ”

“She's like a Philistine on a Sunday, the way she won't take but so many steps a day. Except every day's Sunday around here.”

“There are days when I don’t know how I live with myself. Those days are Sundays through Saturdays.”

“I never land on Sundays. Sundays are boring.”

“I had no problem spending Monday through Friday alone, Saturdays were neutral, but each Sunday had to be reckoned with. There's solitude and then there's loneliness. Monday through Saturday were marked by solitude but on Sundays that solitude hardened into something else. I didn't necessarily want to spend my Sundays with someone, but on those days I was simply reminded, in the nagging pitch that only Sundays can have, that I was alone.”