Sack meaning

Noun: sack

Pronunciation: (sak)

Sack meaning:

• A bag made of paper or plastic for holding a customer’s purchases

Synonyms: poke, paper bag, carrier bag 

• An enclosed space

Synonyms: pouch, sac, pocket 

• The quantity contained in a sack

Synonyms: sackful 

• Any of various light dry strong white wine from Spain and Canary Islands (including sherry)

• A woman’s full loose hiplength jacket

Synonyms: sacque 

• A hanging bed of canvas or rope netting (usually suspended between two trees); swings easily

Synonyms: hammock 

• A loose-fitting dress hanging straight from the shoulders without a waist

Synonyms: chemise, shift 

• The plundering of a place by an army or mob; usually involves destruction and slaughter

• The termination of someone’s employment (leaving them free to depart)

Synonyms: discharge, dismissal, dismission, firing, liberation, sacking, release, severance, the axe, the boot

Verb: sack

Pronunciation: (sak)

Sack meaning:

• Plunder (a town) after capture

Synonyms: plunder 

• Terminate the employment of; discharge from an office or position

Synonyms: displace, fire, give notice, can, dismiss, give the axe, send away, force out, give the sack, terminate 

• Make as a net profit

Synonyms: net, sack up, clear 

• Put in a sack

Quotations:

1. Kiera Cass – If you don’t want me to be in love with you, you’re going to have to stop looking so lovely. First thing tomorrow I’m having your maids sew some potato sacks together for you.
2. Tara Sivec – And let’s face it people, no one is ever honest with you about child birth. Not even your mother. It’s a pain you forget all about once you have that sweet little baby in your arms. Bullshit. I call bullshit.   Any friend, cousin, or nosey-ass stranger in the grocery store that tells you it’s not that bad is a lying sack of shit.   Your vagina is roughly the size of the girth of a penis.   It has to stretch and open and turn into a giant bat cave so the life-sucking human you’ve been growing for nine months can angrily claw its way out.   Who in their right mind would do that willingly?   You’re just walking along one day and think to yourself, You know, I think it’s time I turn my vagina into an Arby’s Beef and Cheddar (minus the cheddar) and saddle myself down for a minimum of eighteen years to someone who will suck the soul and the will to live right out of my body so I’m a shell of the person I used to be and can’t get laid even if I pay for it.
3. Margaret Atwood – I wonder which is preferable, to walk around all your life swollen up with your own secrets until you burst from the pressure of them, or to have them sucked out of you, every paragraph, every sentence, every word of them, so at the end you’re depleted of all that was once as precious to you as hoarded gold, as close to you as your skin – everything that was of the deepest importance to you, everything that made you cringe and wish to conceal, everything that belonged to you alone – and must spend the rest of your days like an empty sack flapping in the wind, an empty sack branded with a bright fluorescent label so that everyone will know what sort of secrets used to be inside you.
4. Pablo Neruda – Each in the most hidden sack kept the lost jewels of memory,intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses,the fragment of public or private happiness.A few, the wolves, collected thighs,other men loved the dawn scratching mountain ranges or ice floes, locomotives, numbers.For me happiness was to share singing,praising, cursing, crying with a thousand eyes.I ask forgiveness for my bad ways:my life had no use on earth.
5. Patrick Rothfuss – I knelt and opened up my lute case. Moving the lute aside, I pressed the lid of the secret compartment and twisted it open. I slid Threpe’s sealed letter inside, where it joined the hollow horn with Nina’s drawing and a small sack of dried apple I had stowed there. There was nothing special about the dried apple, but in my opinion if you have a secret compartment in your lute case and don’t use it to hide things, there is something terribly, terribly wrong with you.
6. Robert jordan – An open sack hides nothing, And an open door hides little, but an open man is surely hiding something is quoted by Nynaeve.
7. Ilona Andrews – Okay, so most guys don’t have a nice ball sack, right? It looks all hairy and wrinkled like some small animal died between their legs, but Gerardo’s is like two plums in a velvet bag. Derek, who’d been lingering in the doorway, took a careful step to the left behind the wall and disappeared from my view. Kill me, somebody. I raised my hand. Hold that thought. I need to borrow Andrea for a minute. I grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hallway.
8. Toni Morrison- Risky, thought Paul D, very risky. For a used-to-be-slave woman to love anything that much was dangerous, especially if it was her children she had settled on to love. The best thing, he knew, was to love just a little bit, so when they broke its back, or shoved it in a croaked sack, well, maybe you’d have a little love left over for the next one.
9. Ann Brashares – It was hard to feel the right emotions at the right times. They didn’t come at all when you set a place for them, and they sacked when you weren’t ready, when you were just innocently flossing your teeth, for example, or eating a bowl of cereal.

Sample sentences:

1. Kiersten slides the sack off her wrist and opens it, pulling out a handful of hand-made butterflies. She takes the microphone out of the stand and begins walking down the stairs as she continues speaking.
2. Hang on , Harry muttered to Ron.  There’s an empty chair at the staff table. Where’s Snape? Maybe he’s ill! said Ron hopefully. Maybe he’s left, said Harry,  because he missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again! Or he might have been sacked! said Ron enthusiastically. I mean, everyone hates him Or maybe, said a very cold voice right behind them, he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape.
3. Leaking sacks of mutated maggots? He raises his perfectly arched eyebrow as though I’d just failed my verbal insult exam.
4. Well, I’m glad you’re so amused, I said, running my fingers across the railing. Maxon hopped up to sit on the railing, looking very relaxed. You’re always amusing. Get used to it.Hmm. He was almost being funny. So about what you said,  he started tentatively.Which part? The part about me calling you names or fighting with my mom or saying food was my motivation? I rolled my eyes.He laughed once. The part about me being good. Oh. What about it? Those few sentences suddenly seemed more embarrassing than anything else I’d said. I ducked my head down and twisted a piece of my dress. I appreciate you making things look authentic, but you didn’t need to go that far. My head snapped up. How could he think that? Maxon, that wasn’t for the sake of the show. If you had asked me a month ago what my honest opinion of you was, it would have been very different. But now I know you, and I know the truth, and you are everything I said you were. And more. He was quiet, but there was a small smile on his face.Thank you, he finally said. Anytime. Maxon cleared his throat. He’ll be lucky, too. He got down from his makeshift seat and walked to my side of the balcony. Huh? Your boyfriend. When he comes to his senses and begs you to take him back, Maxon said matter-of-factly. I had to laugh. No such thing would happen in y world. he’s not my boyfriend anymore. And he made it pretty clear he was gone with me. Even I could hear the tiny bit of hope in my voice. Not possible. He’ll have seen you on TV by now and fallen for you all over again. Though, in my opinion, you’re still much too good for the dog. Maxon spoke almost as if he was bored, like he’d seen this happen a million times. Speaking of which! he said a bit louder. If you don’t want me to be in love with you, you’re going to have to stop looking so lovely. First thing tomorrow I’m having your maids sew some potato sacks together for you. I hit his arm. Shut up, Maxon. I’m not kidding. You’re too beautiful for your own good. Once you leave, we’ll have to send some of the guards with you. You’ll never survive on your own, poor thing. He said all this with mock pity. I can’t help it. I sighed. One can never help being born into perfection. I fanned my face as if being so pretty was exhausting.No, I don’t suppose you can help it.
5. It was awful to be Negro and have no control over my life. It was brutal to be young and already trained to sit quietly and listen to charges brought against my color with no chance of defense. We should all be dead. I thought I should like to see us all dead, one on top of the other. A pyramid of flesh with the white folks on the bottom, as the broad base, then the Indians with their silly tomahawks and teepees and wigwams and treaties, the Negroes with their mops and recipes and cotton sacks and spirituals sticking out of their mouths. The Dutch children should all stumble in their wooden shoes and break their necks. The French should choke to death on the Louisiana Purchase (1803) while silkworms ate all the Chinese with their stupid pigtails. As a species, we were an abomination. All of us.
6. Waiting turns men into bears in a barn, and women into cats in a sack.
7. 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.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
8. I’ve always been a quitter. I quit the Boy Scouts, the glee club, the marching band. Gave up my paper route, turned my back on the church, stuffed the basketball team. I dropped out of college, sidestepped the army with a 4-F on the grounds of mental instability, went back to school, made a go of it, entered a Ph.D. program in nineteenth-century British literature, sat in the front row, took notes assiduously, bought a pair of horn-rims, and quit on the eve of my comprehensive exams. I got married, separated, divorced. Quit smoking, quit jogging, quit eating red meat. I quit jobs: digging graves, pumping gas, selling insurance, showing pornographic films in an art theater in Boston. When I was nineteen I made frantic love to a pinch-faced, sack-bosomed girl I’d known from high school. She got pregnant. I quit town.
9. You are an ocean in a drop of dew,all the universes in a thin sack of blood.What are these pleasures then,these joys, these worlds that you keep reaching for,hoping they will make you more alive?
10. My friend Erin says we all have demons inside us, voices that whisper we’re no good, that if we don’t make this promotion or ace that exam we’ll reveal to the world exactly what kind of worthless sacks of skin and sinew we really are Maybe that’s true. Maybe mine just have louder voices.
11. The whole world is a sack of shit ripping open. I can´t save it.
12. If you choose to believe me, good. Now I will tell you how Octavia, the spider-web city, is made. There is a precipice between two steep mountains: the city is over the void, bound to the two crests with ropes and chains and catwalks. You walk on the little wooden ties, careful not to set your foot in the open spaces, or you cling to the hempen strands. Below there is nothing for hundreds and hundreds of feet: a few clouds glide past; farther down you can glimpse the chasm’s bed.This is the foundation of the city: a net which serves as passage and as support. All the rest, instead of rising up, is hung below: rope ladders, hammocks, houses made like sacks, clothes hangers, terraces like gondolas, skins of water, gas jets, spits, baskets on strings, dumb-waiters, showers, trapezes and rings for children’s games, cable cars, chandeliers, pots with trailing plants.Suspended over the abyss, the life of Octavia’s inhabitants is less uncertain than in other cities. They know the net will only last so long.
13. I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and saying  Ah! in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn’t and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out.Then he would lean back in his chair and match the tips of his fingers together in a little steeple and tell me why I couldn’t sleep and why I couldn’t read and why I couldn’t eat and why everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end. And then, I thought, he would help me, step by step, to be myself again.
14. They’re not fellas.  They’re not anywhere near human. They’re nothing but leaking sacks of mutated maggots, just like you. Looks wise, he and the other angels I’d seen were closer to living Adonises, complete with god-like faces and presence. But inside, they were maggots for sure.
15. Out of the sad sack of sad shit that was my life, I made a word house.
16. One thought alone preoccupies the submerged mind of Empire: how not to end, how not to die, how to prolong its era. By day it pursues its enemies. It is cunning and ruthless, it sends its bloodhounds everywhere. By night it feeds on images of disaster: the sack of cities, the rape of populations, pyramids of bones, acres of desolation.
17. The other part of me wanted to get out and stay out, but this was the part I never listened to. Because if I ever had I would have stayed in the town where I was born and worked in the hardware store and married the boss’s daughter and had five kids and read them the funny paper on Sunday morning and smacked their heads when they got out of line and squabbled with the wife about how much spending money they were to get and what programs they could have on the radio or TV set. I might even get rich – small-town rich, an eight-room house, two cars in the garage, chicken every Sunday and the Reader’s Digest on the living room table, the wife with a cast-iron permanent and me with a brain like a sack of Portland cement. You take it, friend. I’ll take the big sordid dirty crooked city.
18. I love the imagery of struggle. I sometimes wish I were suffering in a good cause, or risking my life for the good of others, instead of just being a gravely endangered patient. Allow me to inform you, though, that when you sit in a room with a set of other finalists, and kindly people bring a huge transparent bag of poison and plug it into your arm, and you either read or don’t read a book while the venom sack gradually empties itself into your system, the image of the ardent solider is the very last one that will occur to you. You feel swamped with passivity and impotence: dissolving in powerlessness like a sugar lump in water.