“An endless, dreary sunday afternoon, an afternoon swallowing down whole years, its every hour a year. By turns walked despairingly down empty streets and lay quietly on the couch. Occasionally astonished by the leaden, meaningless clouds almost uninterruptedly drifting by. ‘You are reserved for a great Monday!’ Fine, but Sunday will never end.”
—Kafka

“Now, as I'm no longer a child, Sunday has become once again a day in which all the socials demands are suspended—mail, the phone, rendezvous—which tire me out during the week. A happy day, because it is a day unfilled, a silent day when I can remain idle, that is, free. Because the saintly form of modern laziness is, at the end, freedom.”
—Barthes

“Peace to the Cottages! War on the Palaces! . . . The life of the privileged is one long Sunday; they live in fine houses, they wear smart clothes they have healthy faces and talk with their own accent; but the people lie before them like dung in the furrows.”
—Georg Büchner

“The nostalgie du dimanche is not a longing for the working week, but for the state of being emancipated from it; Sunday fails to satisfy, not because it is a day off work, but because its own promise is felt directly as unfulfilled; like the English one, every Sunday is too little Sunday. The man for whom time stretches out painfully is one waiting in vain, disappointed at not finding tomorrow already continuing yesterday. The boredom of those who have no need to work, however is not fundamentally different. Society as a totality inflicts on those in power what they do to the others, and what is forbidden to these they will hardly permit themselves.”
—Theodor Adorno