Burlap Sack Quotes

Leaving?” she squeaked, bemused, as Max opened her wardrobe. “You’re abducting me?” “Eloping. Eloping involves hurried packing. Abducting involves masked men and a burlap sack.

dreamed of a day when girls could wear lace and makeup—or no makeup at all and don burlap sacks if they desired—to their chosen profession without it being deemed inappropriate.

'Translations,' Lateran said scornfully, examining the bruises along Kestrel's ribs. 'Like caressing your lover through a burlap sack. You get the gesture of the thing, but not the nuance, and it is overall an irritating experience.'

She was reserved and cold, as if having been stolen from her native village in a burlap sack and made to be servant and helpmate to an Englishman many years her senior, for some reasons sat poorly with her.

A wave of hurt broke over Francie and left her weak when it was passed. Another wave came, broke and receded. She found her way down to the cellar of her house and sat in the darkest corner on a heap of burlap sacks and waited while the hurt waves swept over her. As each wave spent itself and a new one gathered, she trembled. Tensely she sat there waiting for them to stop. If they didn't stop, she'd have to die--she'd have to die.

Silence took one of the burlap sacks from her pack and handed it to William Ann, then removed her hammer. It wasn’t some war weapon, like her grandfather had spoken of. Just a simple tool for pounding nails. Or other things.

Basket of Figs” Bring me your pain, love. Spread it out like fine rugs, silk sashes, warm eggs, cinnamon and cloves in burlap sacks. Show me the detail, the intricate embroidery on the collar, tiny shell buttons, the hem stitched the way you were taught, pricking just a thread, almost invisible. Unclasp it like jewels, the gold still hot from your body. Empty your basket of figs. Spill your wine. That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it, cradling it on my tongue like the slick seed of pomegranate. I would lift it tenderly, as a great animal might carry a small one in the private cave of the mouth. Ellen Bass, Mules of Love (BOA Editions Ltd.; 1st edition (April 1, 2002)

We stare at each other pop-eyed over the burlap sack and laugh as if we're afraid to stop. Somebody needs to say the magical, abracadabrical words that will turn tonight's crime into a joke. Marta has buttoned her wet sweater up to her neck. Petey's vanished. Now Raffy swirls the flashlights with true panic. Our joke keeps hatching and waddling forward in a snaky black procession, growing longer and less funny by the second, and this time nobody, not even Raffy, knows the punch line.

You look good to me," he said, his eyes raking appreciatively over her. "I think ranch life must suit you." "Thanks. You look good to me too." He was dressed in his customary faded jeans and a worn denim jacket, but Keith would look good in a burlap sack.

The owner as he crosses the board floor, moving between shelves, past stacked crates and burlap sacks bulging with sugar and flour. “Jessup? It’s Brady! You in back?” The twelve burros crane their scrawny necks in his direction when Brady emerges from the merc. He reaches into his greatcoat, pulls out a tin of Star Navy tobacco, and shoves a chaw between lips and gums gone blackish purple in the last year. “What the hell?” he whispers. When he delivered supplies two weeks ago, this little mining town was bustling. Now Abandon looms listless before him in the gloom of late afternoon, streets empty, snow banked high against the unshoveled plank sidewalks, no tracks as far as he can see. The cabins scattered across the lower slopes lie buried to their chimneys, and with not a one of them smoking, the air smells too clean. Brady is a man at home in solitude, often spending days on the trail, alone in wild, quiet places, but this silence is all wrong—a lie. He feels menaced by it, and with each passing moment, more certain that something.

I had first suspected this reading the Mikke Mus comic, when, among the vivid words for sounds that sprawled in fat letters across the frames, I encountered splæsj (splash) and krasj (crash), along with others: splooosj, svooosj, flasj (cameras popping), svisj (pursued and pursuers racing past), and the sound of a sneeze—atsjoo—from a character concealed among some burlap sacks of soap powder.

In historical terms women, black people in general, were very attracted to very bright-colored clothing. Most people are frightened by color anyway...They just are. In this culture quiet colors are considered elegant. Civilized Western people wouldn’t buy bloodred sheets or dishes. There may be something more to it than what I am suggesting. But the slave population had no access even to what color there was, because they wore slave clothes, hand-me-downs, work clothes made out of burlap and sacking. For them a colored dress would be luxurious; it wouldn’t matter whether it was rich or poor cloth . . . just to have a red or a yellow dress. I stripped Beloved of color so that there are only the small moments when Sethe runs amok buying ribbons and bows, enjoying herself the way children enjoy that kind of color. The whole business of color was why slavery was able to last such a long time. It wasn’t as though you had a class of convicts who could dress themselves up and pass themselves off. No, these were people marked because of their skin color, as well as other features. So color is a signifying mark. Baby Suggs dreams of color and says, “Bring me a little lavender.” It is a kind of luxury. We are so inundated with color and visuals. I just wanted to pull it back so that one could feel that hunger and that delight.

To eat a banana for the thousandth time is nothing like eating a banana for the first time. To have sex with somebody for the thousandth time is nothing like having sex with that person for the first time. The easier an experience, or the more entrenched, or the more familiar, the fainter our sensation of it becomes. This is true of chocolate and marriages and hometowns and narrative structures. Complexities wane, miracles become unremarkable, and if we’re not careful, pretty soon we’re gazing out at our lives as if through a burlap sack.

Good morning! The sun is up! Wake up! Time to eat," said the birds. "Good morning," Ashlynn said back. There was a clink of glass slippers against the wood floor, and then her mother appeared in the doorway. She had the same strawberry-blond hair and green eyes as Ashlynn. Her mother was already dressed, but Ashlynn didn't notice the clothes she was wearing. As always, her eyes went right to the glass slippers. Oh, how she loved those shoes. "Chores, dear!" her mother said, leaning over to kiss the top of Ashlynn's head. "And then you should pack." "Yes, Mother!" Ashlynn washed her face, put on an apron, and then opened wide the door to her shoe closet. This princess wouldn't care if she wore a burlap sack every day, so long as she had dozens of footwear choices. Today she settled on a pair of scrappy teal wedges and went to start breakfast. Even though her father's grand house came fully stocked with servants, her mother believed in good, solid, character-forming chores. After all, Ashlynn would inherit her mother's story and become the next Cinderella someday, and there would be lots of floors to mop and hearths to sweep before her Happily Ever After.

Ashlynn washed her face, put on an apron, and then opened wide the door to her shoe closet. This princess wouldn't care if she wore a burlap sack every day, so long as she had dozens of footwear choices. Today she settled on a pair of scrappy teal wedges and went to start breakfast. Even though her father's grand house came fully stocked with servants, her mother believed in good, solid, character-forming chores. After all, Ashlynn would inherit her mother's story and become the next Cinderella someday, and there would be lots of floors to mop and hearths to sweep her Happily Ever After.

Helene straightened up from her trunk and pursed her already-drawn lips. “It’s a bit like Mr Holmes always said. ‘Pay attention to details. Everything is important’.” “Actually I don’t think Mr Holmes ever did say that, not quite in those words at any rate! But I take your point. Anything might be important, therefore everything is important.” I glanced back towards the corner with the pile of burlap sacks thoughtfully. “Everything is important. Everything is a circle.” “What?” Helene’s startled face appeared round a stack of old books that had an ancient spinning-wheel Miss Hurst had thrown out years ago reposing haughtily—albeit somewhat askew—on top. “Oh, nothing.

In 1976, a doctoral student at the University of Nottingham in England demonstrated that randomizing letters in the middle of words had no effect on the ability of readers to understand sentences. In tihs setncene, for emalxpe, ervey scarbelmd wrod rmenias bcilasaly leibgle. Why? Because we are deeply accustomed to seeing letters arranged in certain patterns. Because the eye is in a rush, and the brain, eager to locate meaning, makes assumptions. This is true of phrases, too. An author writes “crack of dawn” or “sidelong glance” or “crystal clear” and the reader’s eye continues on, at ease with combinations of words it has encountered innumerable times before. But does the reader, or the writer, actually expend the energy to see what is cracking at dawn or what is clear about a crystal? The mind craves ease; it encourages the senses to recognize symbols, to gloss. It makes maps of our kitchen drawers and neighborhood streets; it fashions a sort of algebra out of life. And this is useful, even essential—X is the route to work, Y is the heft and feel of a nickel between your fingers. Without habit, the beauty of the world would overwhelm us. We’d pass out every time we saw—actually saw—a flower. Imagine if we only got to see a cumulonimbus cloud or Cassiopeia or a snowfall once a century: there’d be pandemonium in the streets. People would lie by the thousands in the fields on their backs. We need habit to get through a day, to get to work, to feed our children. But habit is dangerous, too. The act of seeing can quickly become unconscious and automatic. The eye sees something—gray-brown bark, say, fissured into broad, vertical plates—and the brain spits out tree trunk and the eye moves on. But did I really take the time to see the tree? I glimpse hazel hair, high cheekbones, a field of freckles, and I think Shauna. But did I take the time to see my wife? “Habitualization,” a Russian army-commissar-turned-literary-critic named Viktor Shklovsky wrote in 1917, “devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war.” What he argued is that, over time, we stop perceiving familiar things—words, friends, apartments—as they truly are. To eat a banana for the thousandth time is nothing like eating a banana for the first time. To have sex with somebody for the thousandth time is nothing like having sex with that person for the first time. The easier an experience, or the more entrenched, or the more familiar, the fainter our sensation of it becomes. This is true of chocolate and marriages and hometowns and narrative structures. Complexities wane, miracles become unremarkable, and if we’re not careful, pretty soon we’re gazing out at our lives as if through a burlap sack. In the Tom Andrews Studio I open my journal and stare out at the trunk of the umbrella pine and do my best to fight off the atrophy that comes from seeing things too frequently. I try to shape a few sentences around this tiny corner of Rome; I try to force my eye to slow down. A good journal entry—like a good song, or sketch, or photograph—ought to break up the habitual and lift away the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought be a love letter to the world. Leave home, leave the country, leave the familiar. Only then can routine experience—buying bread, eating vegetables, even saying hello—become new all over again.

There was a clink of glass slippers against the wood floor, and then her mother appeared in the doorway. She had the same strawberry-blond hair and green eyes as Ashlynn. Her mother was already dressed, but Ashlynn didn't notice the clothes she was wearing. As always, her eyes went right to the glass slippers. Oh, how she loved those shoes. "Chores, dear!" her mother said, leaning over to kiss the top of Ashlynn's head. "And then you should pack." "Yes, Mother!" Ashlynn washed her face, put on an apron, and then opened wide the door to her shoe closet. This princess wouldn't care if she wore a burlap sack every day, so long as she had dozens of footwear choices. Today she settled on a pair of scrappy teal wedges and went to start breakfast. Even though her father's grand house came fully stocked with servants, her mother believed in good, solid, character-forming chores. After all, Ashlynn would inherit her mother's story and become the next Cinderella someday, and there would be lots of floors to mop and hearths to sweep her Happily Ever After.

Mr. Fish told my mother that he would make a “gift” of Sagamore’s body—to my grandmother’s roses. He implied that a dead dog was highly prized, among serious gardeners; my grandmother wished to be brought into the discussion, and it was quickly agreed which rosebushes would be temporarily uprooted, and replanted, and Mr. Fish began with the spade. The digging was much softer in the rose bed than it would have been in Mr. Fish’s yard, and the young couple and their baby from down the street were sufficiently moved to attend the burial, along with a scattering of Front Street’s other children; even my grandmother asked to be called when the hole was ready, and my mother—although the day had turned much colder—wouldn’t even go inside for a coat. She wore dark-gray flannel slacks and a black, V-necked sweater, and stood hugging herself, standing first on one foot, then on the other, while Owen gathered strange items to accompany Sagamore to the underworld. Owen was restrained from putting the football in the burlap sack, because Mr. Fish—while digging the grave—maintained that football was still a game that would give us some pleasure, when we were “a little older.” Owen found a few well-chewed tennis balls, and Sagamore’s food dish, and his dog blanket for trips in the car; these he included in the burlap sack, together with a scattering of the brightest maple leaves—and a leftover lamb chop that Lydia had been saving for Sagamore (from last night’s supper).

The P.I. states that if something x has happened in certain particular circumstances n times in the past, we are justified in believing that the same circumstances will produce x on the (n + 1)th occasion. The P.I. is wholly respectable and authoritative, and it seems like a well-lit exit out of the whole problem. Until, that is, it happens to strike you (as can occur only in very abstract moods or when there’s an unusual amount of time before the alarm goes off) that the P.I. is itself merely an abstraction from experience … and so now what exactly is it that justifies our confidence in the P.I.? This latest thought may or may not be accompanied by a concrete memory of several weeks spent on a relative’s farm in childhood (long story). There were four chickens in a wire coop off the garage, the brightest of whom was called Mr. Chicken. Every morning, the farm’s hired man’s appearance in the coop area with a certain burlap sack caused Mr. Chicken to get excited and start doing warmup-pecks at the ground, because he knew it was feeding time. It was always around the same time t every morning, and Mr. Chicken had figured out that t(man + sack) = food, and thus was confidently doing his warmup-pecks on that last Sunday morning when the hired man suddenly reached out and grabbed Mr. Chicken and in one smooth motion wrung his neck and put him in the burlap sack and bore him off to the kitchen. Memories like this tend to remain quite vivid, if you have any. But with the thrust, lying here, being that Mr. Chicken appears now actually to have been correct—according to the Principle of Induction—in expecting nothing but breakfast from that (n + 1)th appearance of man + sack at t. Something about the fact that Mr. Chicken not only didn’t suspect a thing but appears to have been wholly justified in not suspecting a thing—this seems concretely creepy and upsetting. Finding some higher-level justification for your confidence in the P.I. seems much more urgent when you realize that, without this justification, our own situation is basically indistinguishable from that of Mr. Chicken. But the conclusion, abstract as it is, seems inescapable: what justifies our confidence in the Principle of Induction is that it has always worked so well in the past, at least up to now. Meaning that our only real justification for the Principle of Induction is the Principle of Induction, which seems shaky and question-begging in the extreme. The only way out of the potentially bedridden-for-life paralysis of this last conclusion is to pursue further abstract side-inquiries into what exactly ‘justification’ means and whether it’s true that the only valid justifications for certain beliefs and principles are rational and noncircular. For instance, we know that in a certain number of cases every year cars suddenly veer across the centerline into oncoming traffic and crash head-on into people who were driving along not expecting to get killed; and thus we also know, on some level, that whatever confidence lets us drive on two-way roads is not 100% rationally justified by the laws of statistical probability. And yet ‘rational justification’ might not apply here. It might be more the fact that, if you cannot believe your car won’t suddenly get crashed into out of nowhere, you just can’t drive, and thus that your need/desire to be able to drive functions as a kind of ‘justification’ of your confidence.* It would be better not to then start analyzing the various putative ‘justifications’ for your need/desire to be able to drive a car—at some point you realize that the process of abstract justification can, at least in principle, go on forever. The ability to halt a line of abstract thinking once you see it has no end is part of what usually distinguishes sane, functional people—people who when the alarm finally goes off can hit the floor without trepidation and plunge into the concrete business of the real workaday world—from the unhinged.

examining everything. The place had clearly been just what Clem called it—a hidey-hole—a home away from home for Justice’s father. And for Justice himself? He didn’t know. One of the wooden crates held a bushel of potatoes in need of sprouting. The others held various dry goods, mostly food. A hundred air tights, maybe more, dried beans, flour, sugar, and coffee… a lot of coffee. A coffee pot sat on the table, along with mugs, plates, and silverware. A burlap sack slumped against one wall. Checking inside, he found oats for horses. The top drawer of the chest held a gun belt with two holsters, each holding a loaded revolver. As he examined these pistols, he was amazed by how good they felt. Their balance, their weight, the smoothness with which they slid from the well-worn holster… it was amazing… and at the same time familiar.

Woke is definitely a black experience — woke is if someone put a burlap sack on your head, knocked you out, and put you in a new location and then you come to and understand where you are ain’t home and the people around you ain’t your neighbors. They’re not acting in a neighborly fashion, they’re the ones who conked you on your head. You got kidnapped here and then you got punked out of your own language, everything. That’s woke — understanding what your ancestors went through. Just being in touch with the struggle that our people have gone through here and understanding we’ve been fighting since the very day we touched down here. There was no year where the fight wasn’t going down.

At God's party you can show up wearing a crown or a burlap sack and expect not a single compliment or insult because everybody has to walk in heart-first.

Lucy paused, hands full of green beans, her memory flashing back to the giant pots of crawfish on the stove. Her Mama’s green eyes would squint into the steam, hair pulled back, a frown of concentration on her face. The salted water was flavored and ready to receive the “mudbugs” out of their burlap sacks. Other than an onion or maybe an ear of corn, if it wasn’t alive when you threw it in, then it shouldn’t be in the pot, she’d say. Did her Mama mind that Lucy didn’t cook those old family recipes? Was she turning her back on her culinary heritage as surely as Paulette was? She snapped the ends of the beans faster, glancing at the clock. This whole dinner was breaking her Mama’s cardinal rule: don’t hurry. She thought if a cook was in a hurry, you might as well just make a sandwich and go on your way.

The urge to flee is a high-pitched whistle and I stare into a black cavity of space that stinks of urine and dead flowers. Of rotting oranges and leather and spray paint. I crawl into the space and find a corner. I stare into the shadows and I see several corpselike figures, coiled in burlap sacks around me. Sleeping drunks with the faces of dogs, of horses. I blink and they’re not there.

The queue also answers a question for curious theme park guests. Look for it the next time you are there. In Walt Disney’s Enchanted Tiki Room, the lead parrot Jose asks a question during the show: “Whatever happened to Rosita?” The answer to this question can be found just to the left of the Autocanary Air Quality Analyzers in the Ventilation Room, where you’ll see a golden cage hanging above three burlap sacks. The name on the cage is marked with Rosita, who apparently became a canary in the mine. What

She wore a custom-made gown and the best hair and makeup money could buy, but even in a burlap sack, she’d be the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

You could show up tonight in a bloody burlap sack, and you would still outshine every single person in the room. In fact, I haven’t quite decided if I’ll allow everyone to leave with their eyes intact after being allowed to look at you the entire evening.” “That’s a little dramatic.

One last time, Bridget pleads her innocence, begging for help. The last thing she sees before the burlap sack is placed over her head is the pious and bearded Reverend Hale, a 56 year old pastor grasping his bible as if it were a weapon. It is a beautiful spring morning. The sun is shining. A sign of God's approval. A ladder is put below the thick branch of an old oak tree. Two men lift Bridget onto it. She feels the noose as it is placed over her head, then tightened around her neck. Suddenly, the ladder is kicked out from beneath her. Bridget slowly strangles. Kicking out hard with her legs, then she is still. The crowd approves. They are safer now. But in reality, no one is safe in Salem.

Come on, let’s go find me a killer dress.” “Nicky, you could show up in a burlap sack, and you’d still turn heads.

She reached into the burlap sack that she kept draped over her shoulder and retrieved a large spray of lavender and bunches of marigold. "To decorate your supper club," Ms. Rose said. "They are the colors of Mardi Gras: purple for justice, gold for power, and the green leaves represent faith." "These are beautiful," Tiana said as she took the flowers. Their coloring was so vivid they looked otherworldly.

In it, she finds three things: an envelope, a burlap sack, and a videocassette.

It's also good enough for the best-selling novelist Anne Lamott, who continually combines humor, humanity, and profound spiritual insight in her work. She says, "Every time you say Yes, when you mean No, you abandon yourself a little; and eventually too much sand is going to leak out of your burlap sacks, and you're going to be operating out of a place of emptiness and deprivation and resentment. Whereas, when you say No, when you mean No, you create a little glade around you in which you can get the nourishment you need.

It was the first time I’d seen him in over a week. We both froze. His presence was a physical caress, like a gust of warm air. My eyes pored over him. He had his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and he wore the shirt he’d won at trivia night—he wore the shit out of it too. It was amazing how anything he had on looked sexy on him. The man could wear a burlap sack and look incredible. I knew just looking at it what it would smell like, and I wished I could put my nose to the blue cotton. He’d lost weight. His muscles were more defined. His dimples didn’t show, because he didn’t smile. He looked good—but he looked sad. He’d get over it soon enough. A few babies from now and he wouldn’t even remember me. He didn’t make any move to get out of my path. I looked away and walked past him, and he stood like a statue, eyes on me. Then suddenly a hand shot out and touched my arm. It trailed lightly down my forearm as I walked on, across the top of my hand, over my fingers, and then it was gone. I didn’t jerk away because that would have been acknowledging that he was even there. But the few seconds of contact moved through my whole body. I felt it the rest of the day.

Close your eyes, Mama. Then pack away all your hard stuff into a burlap sack and throw it over your shoulder. I know it’s heavy, but I’m right here with you and I’ll take a turn when you get tired. Now follow me up this path and when we get to the top, I want you to lay it all down and embrace the last years you have left here with us. I want you to feel lighter. And Mama, I want you to live life like you love it.

Sure," Steven said good-naturedly. He walked up to his sister, who was now standing before the full-length mirror on the back of his closet door. He bent his six-foot-one body over her zipper. It took a little maneuvering, but he finally managed to zip up the dress without damaging the delicate fabric. "You had a thread caught in it," he told her. "Thank you, Steve," she said, admiring herself in the mirror. "What do you think?" Steven inspected his sister carefully. Jessica had a knack for picking out clothes that made her look her best—although even a burlap sack couldn't conceal her perfectly proportioned figure. This dress was no exception. The iridescent material matched her brilliant, blue-green eyes, and the neckline of the sleeveless dress was about as low as a sixteen-year-old could get away with. "Nice," was what Steven told her. "Nice?" she echoed bitingly. "Is that all you can say?" Steven laughed. "Oh, come on, Jess. You know you look great. Really, you do." "That's more like it." Jessica grinned.

We intercepted the dark prince just prior to departure. There wasn’t much left of his head, but we grabbed this.” The guard shuffled to dig through the burlap sack. His meaty hands landed on their prize and he lifted out a chain. A chain with my tooth attached to it. “Noooo!” I screamed.

Suits. Sweatpants, This sweater. You could wear a burlap sack, and I'd like it on you.

I am here for all of it—the young people and their bodies. I wish I’d dressed like that when I was their age instead of in the burlap sack dresses we favored for their astonishing shapelessness. “What’s in there?” people surely wondered. A youthful human torso and legs? A truckload of Idaho potatoes? There was no telling.