Bags That Look Quotes & Sayings

Just inside the doorway he puts down the bags, motions her to stand by them a minute. He saunters out ahead, carefully casual. Peers up one way, down the other. Nothing. The street's dead to the world.
Then suddenly, from nowhere, ping! Something flicks off the wall just behind him, flops at his feet like a dead bug. He doesn't bend down to look closer, he can tell what kind of a bug it is all right. He's seen that kind of bug before, plenty of times. No flash, no report, to show which direction it came from. Silencer, of course.
He hasn't moved. Fsssh! and a bee or wasp in a hurry strokes by his cheek, tingles, draws a drop of slow blood. Another pokk! from the wall, another bug rolling over. The insect-world seems very streamlined, very self-destructive, tonight. ("Jane Brown's Body") — Cornell Woolrich

He's gawking at me when I open the door.
"Damn girl," he says, looking me over, "what the hell are you trying to do to me?"
I look down at myself, still trying to wake up the rest of the way and realize I'm in those tiny cotton white shorts and varsity tee with no bra on underneath. Oh my God, my nipples are like beacons shining through my shirt! I cross my arms over my chest and try not to look at him i the eyes when he helps himself the rest of the way inside.
"I was going to tell you to get dressed," he goes on, grinning as he walks into the room carrying his bags and the guitar, "but really, you can go just like that if you want."
I shake my head, hiding the smile creeping up on my face. — J.A. Redmerski

What do you think we're hunting tonight?"
I twisted and pulled at my backpack until it was in front of me, then opened it. More silver stakes. Little glass bottles of holy water. And, oh my God, was that a gun?
My knees were wobbling as I zipped up the Bag O'Death and gingerly dropped it in the grass.
"What's wrong?" Izzy asked.
"Um, a lot? There is seriously so much wrongness going on right now. Namely, the fact that you people are teenagers with bags of guns."
Izzy stiffened a little at that. "We're not kids," she spit out. "We're Brannicks."
Sighing, I shoved my hands in my pockets. "I get that, but look, Izzy, I can't kill a werewolf. I know werewolves. I lived with some, and they're ... well, they're gross and slobbery and super scary, but I can't kill one. — Rachel Hawkins

I must go now."
"Stay up the night with me! We'll go to the fish market. There are great noble monsters packed in ice. There are turtles, live ones, for famous restaurants. We'll rescue one and write messages on his shell and put him in the sea, Shell, seashell. Or we'll go to the vegetable market. They've got red-net bags full of onions that look like huge pearls. Or we'll go down to Forty-second Street and see the movies and buy a mimeographed bulletin of jobs we can get in Pakistan
"
"I work tomorrow."
"Which has nothing to do with it."
"But I'd better go now."
"I know this is unheard in America, but I'll walk you home."
"I live on Twenty-third Street."
"Exactly what I'd hoped. It's over a hundred blocks. — Leonard Cohen

every morning i see a cup of coffee
in front of my sleepy eyes but i am
starting to see things differently,
because of you.
now i see beans, once tossed in hands
and broken down in machines
and placed in bags
sent off somewhere
where the tired people gather.
i see that only because your tenderness
has taught me that we must look beyond
the body of everything and into the soul of all. — Christopher Poindexter

Interesting how fashion is cyclical," Jaccob said when she came out of the store with two black plastic bags. "Goth was the look when I was young, too."
"It's not a look," Chuck said. "I'm just wearing my feelings on the outside."
"Uh huh." His phone buzzed. "Hang on a second."
He rolled up his sleeve to check his HUD, but the call hadn't come through there.
Huh. He had to pick up his phone and check the read-out, which listed a phone number: an old school page. "That's funny ... "
"Dad, you're doing that thing again," Chuck said.
"What thing?" Jaccob asked.
"That thing where you have to check every single doohickey you carry around."
"I am not." Jaccob took his hand out of his coat pocket, where he'd been reaching to check his police scanner or music player (he hadn't decided which to use first). — Erik Scott De Bie

And Man created the plastic bag and the tin and aluminum can and the cellophane wrapper and the paper plate, and this was good because Man could then take his automobile and buy all his food in one place and He could save that which was good to eat in the refrigerator and throw away that which had no further use. And soon the earth was covered with plastic bags and aluminum cans and paper plates and disposable bottles and there was nowhere to sit down or walk, and Man shook his head and cried: Look at this Godawful mess. — Art Buchwald

You know how you wake up in the morning and sometimes you look gorgeous and other times you look like you got hit by a mack truck? I realized that my mack truck is food. If I have no sugar, yeast or wine, I have no undereye bags and my skin is perfect. — Mariska Hargitay

Kiernan hoists one of the bags and slips the strap over my shoulder. I grab the other one, and soon I'm loaded like a pack mule, lugging two bulky military duffels in addition to my backpack.
Trey leans down to give me a goodbye kiss, but his lips are quivering with barely suppressed laughter.
"What?"
"You should see yourself. The toga, the sandals, and now this. You look like a short Greek Rambo."
"Athena, Goddess of Modern War," Kiernan cracks as they get into the car. And now they're both laughing.
I pull up the stable point and blink out, now completely certain that the two of them riding in the same car was a very bad idea. — Rysa Walker

I don't want to look at myself - ever. All I see is that my face is a problem. It's asymmetrical. I get terrible bags under my eyes. — Whitney Cummings

Because I expected so little, Gaines's painting is startlingly powerul. A lank-haired blond woman with a hard face sits at akitchen table in the harsh light of a bare bulb. She's surrounded by dirty cereal bowls and fast-food bags, and her shirt is open to the waist, revealing small sagging breasts. Her hollow eyes look out from the canvas with the sullen resignation of an animal that has helped build its own cage. — Greg Iles

I'm a big potato chip girl. I don't like chocolate and cakes and all that, but I have to have my potato chips. I've got bags in the back of my car right now! But I never beat myself up about it, because, look: You can't give up every damn thing. You need something in your life that you like just because you like it! — NeNe Leakes

I did not know the work of mourning
Is like carrying a bag of cement
Up a mountain at night
The mountaintop is not in sight
Because there is no mountaintop
Poor Sisyphus grief
I did not know I would struggle
Through a ragged underbrush
Without an upward path
...
Look closely and you will see
Almost everyone carrying bags
Of cement on their shoulders
That's why it takes courage
To get out of bed in the morning
And climb into the day. — Edward Hirsch

From Labor Day through Halloween, the place is almost unbearably beautiful. The air during these weeks seems less like ether and more like a semisolid, clear and yet dense somehow, as if it were filled with the finest imaginable golden pollen. The sky tends toward brilliant ice-blue, and every thing and being is invested with a soft, gold-ish glow. Tin cans look good in this light; discarded shopping bags do. I'm not poet enough to tell you what the salt marsh looks like at high tide. I confess that when I lived year-round in Provincetown, I tended to become irritable toward the end of October, when one supernal day after another seemed to imply that the only reasonable human act was to abandon your foolish errands and plans, go outside, and fall to your knees. — Michael Cunningham

So she let him carry her bags. She didn't protest when he walked so close that her shoulder brushed against the arm of his heavy wool coat. And yet, beyond that, they did not touch. He didn't even look at her as he said, I would have sent the jet. — Ally Carter

Raffin appeared again, a floor above her, on the balconied passageway that ran past his workrooms. He leaned over the railing and called down to her. "Kat!"
"What is it?"
"You look lost . Have you forgotten the way to your rooms?"
"I'm stalling."
"How long will you be? I'd like to show you a couple of my new discoveries."
"I've been told to make myself pretty for dinner."
He grinned. "Well in that case, you'll be ages."
His face dissolved into laughter, and she tore a button from one of her bags an hurled it at him. He squealed and dropped to the floor, and the button hit the wall right where he'd been standing. When he peeked back over the railing, she stood in the courtyard with her hands on her hips, grinning. "I missed on purpose," she said.
"Show off! Come if you have time." He waved, and turned into his rooms. — Kristin Cashore

When I look in the mirror, I see the ageing process at full pelt, the hairline in retreat, the bags under the eyes growing and darkening, that kind of thing. I suppose it would be easier if I weren't an actor, but I am fairly philosophical about it. — Robert Webb

I meet his eyes. They are deep and almost mesmerizing. Did I say deep before? Yeah, right. That's not it. They have a pull to them, like currents, like Velcro or something, totally captivating, like when you see a convertible flipped over on the highway and there are body bags and you don't want to look but you look because you can't look, because you can't not look, because you are just riveted and . . .
Stop. Just stop. — Carrie Jones

Nobody believes that the man who says, 'Look, lady, you wanted equality,' to explain why he won't give up his seat to a pregnant woman carrying three grocery bags, a briefcase, and a toddler is seized with the symbolism of idealism. — Judith Martin

To the average eye, my bedroom was a complete disaster. The floor was hardly visible with all of the empty soda bottles, chip bags, and piles of clothes covering it. The rustic nightstand by my bed was so cluttered with papers, more soda bottles, notebooks, and hoodies that it looked like a pile of contemporary art. And my bed? It was just a pile of dark blue blankets and pillows scattered on an old mattress. What's the point in making your bed, anyway? You're just gonna mess it up and unmake it at the end of the day. Why even bother? My bedroom might look like a mess to anyone else, but to me, it was my own personal oasis. I liked it just the way it was. I never bought the whole saying, "A cluttered room is a cluttered mind." Me? Cluttered? Nah. More like creative. The more cluttered your room is, the more creative you are. And judging by my room, I must be pretty creative. I — Savannah Ostler

It was foolish to feel like a girl getting ready for a date. Gennie told herself that as she unlocked the door to the cottage.She'd told herself the same thing as she'd driven away from town...as she'd turned down the quiet lane.
It was a spur of the moment cookout-two adults,a steak,and a bottle of burgundy that may or may not have been worth the price. A person would have to look hard to find any romance in charcoal, lighter fluid and some freshly picked greens from a patch in the backyard. Not for the first time, Gennie thought it a pity her imagination was so expansive.
It had undoubtedly been imagination that had brought on that rush of feeling in the churhcyard. A little unexpected tenderness, a soft breeze and she heard bells. Silly.
Gennie set the bags on the kitchen counter and wished she'd bought candles. Candlelight would make even that tidy,practical little kitchen seem romantic.And if she had a radio, there could be music... — Nora Roberts

There was no way that I wanted him to stop touching me, even for a few hours. My pulse thudded as I glanced across at the camp bed. I cleared my throat. "Wel ... is there a reason we can't both take the bed? The sleeping bags zip together, don't they?" Alex stared at me without moving. "Would that be OK?" I asked, feeling nervous suddenly.
The lantern light made his eyes look darker, his hair almost black. He started to smile, a grin spreading across his face. "Yes, that would be extremely OK. — L.A. Weatherly

The trouble with you, Spode, is that just because you have succeeded in inducing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you're someone. You hear them shouting "Heil, Spode!" and you imagine it is the Voice of the People. That is where you make your bloomer. What the Voice of the People is saying is: "Look at that frightful ass Spode swanking about in footer bags! Did you ever in your puff see such a perfect perisher? — P.G. Wodehouse

You know the best thing about aeroplanes? Apart from the peanuts in the little silver bags, I mean.
It's looking out of the windows at the clouds, and thinking, maybe I could go walking in there. Maybe it's a special place where everything's okay.
Sometimes I do go walking in the clouds, but it's just cold and wet and empty. But when you look out of a plane it's a special world ... and I like that. — Neil Gaiman

Granuaile looked terminally depressed when she emerged from the bathroom with raven hair and, as a result rather Goth by accident. She didn't want to get her picture taken.
"Aughh!" she said miserably, looking in the vanity mirror in the truck of the cab and fingering a wavy curl near her temple. "This sucks more than anything has ever sucked before. You know what we look like? A couple of emo douche bags."
"Well, look at the bright side, Granuaile. Emo Douche Bags would be a great band name."
[That's brilliant! It's already the unofficial name of more bands than I can count.] — Kevin Hearne

I like bags that are easy to wear and are pretty to look at. But I don't like them when they have no space and you can't put anything in them. — Alice Dellal

I am mean as cats' meat about handbags: mine don't ever look chic. I always prefer bags that aren't made of leather. — Joanna Lumley

I read because the women that I liked when I was a teenager lived down in Greenwich Village and they all had those black clothes. The Jules Feiffer women with the black leather bags and the blonde hair and the silver earrings and they all had read Proust and Kafka and Nietzche. And so when I said, 'No, the only thing I've ever read were two books by Mickey Spillane,' they would look at their watch and I was out. So in order to be able to carry on a conversation with these women who I thought were so beautiful and fascinating, I had to read. So I read. But it wasn't something I did out of love. I did it out of lust. — Woody Allen

she came out - dancing around in a white shirt with nothing underneath, the rosy coins of her nipples visible under the thin fabric - asking for a wood saw and spackle, he'd been jumpy as a jackrabbit sniffing Easter candy. He could have looked in the bedroom when she left to sleep, to go to Brass and Bones, to go wherever sex-witch art-fairies go. She came back every day with packages from the Indian import store, bags from the pagan crystal shop, boxes that smelled like incense and old wood. But he didn't look because deep down he liked the mystery, that a woman had claimed a space in the house he'd designed, made it hers to reveal on her terms. — Kira A. Gold

Once, in a magazine interview, I said the difference between shoe ladies and bag ladies is that shoe ladies are just a bit classier. Finished! That started World War III among all the women I knew. I only meant that shoes do more for your look and body than bags do! — Kareena Kapoor Khan

The driving aesthetic of military style is uniformity. Whence the word uniform. From first inspection to Arlington National Cemetery, soldiers look like those around them: same hat, same boots, identical white grave marker. They are discouraged from looking unique, because that would encourage them to feel unique, to feel like an individual. The problem with individuals is that they think for themselves and of themselves, rather than for and of their unit. They're the lone goldfish on the old Pepperidge Farm bags, swimming the other way. They're a problem. — Mary Roach

We reviewed the ways we had to bring customers: Method A, flying aerobatics at the edge of town. Method B, the parachute jump. Then we began experimenting with Method C. There is a principle that says if you lay out a lonely solitaire game in the center of the wilderness, someone will soon come along to look over your shoulder and tell you how to play your cards. This was the principle of Method C. We unrolled our sleeping bags and stretched out under the wing, completely uncaring. — Richard Bach

No, no, no. No way!" I shook my head and looked at the offending black motorcycle. "I am not getting on that thing!"
"Sophie, it's a motorcycle, it doesn't bite."
I turned my head to look at the beast. "Really? It looks like it could bite, to me."
"Please, Sophie," he held out a helmet.
I crossed my arms over my chest. "What if I fall off?"
"You're supposed to hang on to me, Soph. What happened to my mighty little she-wolf?"
"She packed her bags and left," I said. — Micalea Smeltzer