metaphor

I opened my mouth to tell her that everything would be okay, but the words melted like sugar on my tongue-sweet yet insubstantial.

...All without any more sound than flipping over a playing card. And sitting in this limo, compared to my fifteen-year-old Volkswagen Beetle I'd bought off a friend, was as quiet as sitting at the bottom of a lake wearing earplugs.

As the new Adam, it might be said, his final act was to cast the Apple of Knowledge into the deep blue sea.

I still remember the flush of blood in her cheeks as she danced. She was all the raw colours of life, the crude beauty of nature. I am the human concept of beauty. Gold made soft and supple in man's form.

...maybe you believe that we fall into our future blindly, drifting from adventure to adventure, our journey zigzagging not according to plan but according to pure chance. Or just maybe, as random and haphazard as our lives seems--maybe that's exactly what the author had in mind.

A month in and it seemed to CY that he was an explorer summiting the foothill of an a bizarre and primitive island.

Until the thirst for power parched his throat, he was a fearless and noble lord.

Under the pathologist's microscope, life and death fight in an illuminated circle in a sort of cellular bullfight. The pathologist's job is to find the bull among the matador cells

The mist hung in the air like a prancing unicorn.

You could not stop the winds and you could not stop Time. It went on and on,-and on.

Metaphor, everything is sort of Metaphor of something else.

If there is anything in writing that comes easy for me it's making up metaphors. They just appear. I can't move two lines without all kinds of images. Then the problem is how to make the best of them. In its geological character, language is almost invariably metaphorical. That's how meanings tend to change. Words become metaphors for other things, then slowly disappear into the new image. I have a hunch, too, that the core of creativity is located in metaphor, in model making, really. A novel is a large metaphor for the world.

The water never stops, never gives up, and denies no faults in the path it takes,_ he explained, my eyes still focused down the ravine, __t moves silently, only a mere trickle to entertain itself as it causes a massive gash in the world. This, Zack, is true power.

Carlyle had come fluttering to the flame, lured by the false invitation Dominic had sent in Eloise's name and lured, too, by Eloise's conclusion that J.E.D.D. Mason was something not unlike a miracle. How confident the cousin was that in this golden age of peace and ever watching trackers, a virgin with a bag of gold could walk across this earth without danger. Our modern moths have bounced so many times off light bulbs they aren't prepared for torches and forget that wings can burn.

You know you're about as forthcoming as a mime.

A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me, that mist, or simply the caretaker__ mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I__l ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won__ shampoo, but carry me along, tiny dust-particles of me.

If string theory is right, the microscopic fabric of our universe is a richly intertwined multidimensional labyrinth within which the strings of the universe endlessly twist and vibrate, rhythmically beating out the laws of the cosmos.

My knee struck a tree root as my vision went black. Suddenly, I was in a building at Haven Crest, kneeling on the floor. Blood, thick and clotted like canned cherries, crept down the walls. The lights above my head flickered off then on with a menacing hum.