“All day, I watch humans scurry from store to store. They pass their green paper, dry as old leaves and smelling of a thousand hands, back and forth and back again.They hunt frantically, stalking, pushing, grumbling. Then they leave, clutching bags filled with things - bright things, soft things, big things - but no matter how full the bags, they always come back for more. Humans are clever indeed. They spin pink clouds you can eat. They build domains with flat waterfalls.But they are lousy hunters.”

“A man will never love you or treat you as well as a store. If a man doesn’t fit, you can’t exchange him seven days later for a gorgeous cashmere sweater. And a store always smells good. A store can awaken a lust for things you never even knew you needed. And when your fingers first grasp those shiny, new bags…”

“Don't come back, if you do I'll be counting down the days even though I know you'll leave all over again. So please do this one thing for me and don't come back...”

“If it is a human thing to do to put something you want, because it's useful, edible, or beautiful, into a bag, or a basket, or a bit of rolled bark or leaf, or a net woven of your own hair, or what have you, and then take it home with you, home being another, larger kind of pouch or bag, a container for people, and then later on you take it out and eat it or share it or store it up for winter in a solider container or put it in the medicine bundle or the shrine or the museum, the holy place, the area that contains what is sacred, and then the next day you probably do much the same again—if to do that is human, if that's what it takes, then I am a human being after all. Fully, freely, gladly, for the first time....[T]he proper, fitting shape of the novel might be that of a sack, a bag. A book holds words. Words hold things. They bear meanings. A novel is a medicine bundle, holding things in a particular, powerful relation to one another and to us."—"The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, quit being pussies." Montana leaned against the doorframe, Coke in hand."You hit me. I left. Billy got shot. You have this weird...brain thing." Those dark eyes met Jack's. "I don't know what's wrong with you, except that you got that ADD thing, and hey, that's not criminal. You are Billy's friends. I'm Billy's, period. I'm not leaving. You're not leaving. You hit me again, and I'll hit you back. Hard. Now, can we all stop being weird-assed people and eat some fucking potato chips from a bag?”

“I bought a bag of chips at the store, and the cashier asked if I wanted a bag. I said, No thanks. It already comes with a bag.”