metaphor

Most people, including yourself, apparently, think The Moldau is about a river. It is not. It is a metaphor. It is about the progress of life, from its fragile beginnings through its joys and turbulence and on to its end, its magnificent end.

The whiskey kicked like a mugger.

One more piece of sky in the jigsaw puzzle of our school.

In the time we spend reeling in confusion, grasping at straws trying to piece our egos together, we forget to acknowledge some things. Society created gender roles and categorizations and lifestyles and names and titles because we fear the unknown, especially when the unknown is us.It__ as though we__e stranded in the middle of an ocean, but we were promised the current would bring us back ashore. We__e given all we need on the life raft. As far as we can see, we__e being led back, slowly. We don__ know when we__l approach the shore, but all evidence points to the fact that we will. But we don__ spend our time looking around, enjoying the view, seeing who came with us, and riding out the waves. We sit and panic about what we__e doing and why we came here.It doesn__ matter where we started because we may never know. It matters where we__e going, because that, we do. We begin and we end. We__e seen one, so there__ only one other option.

His smile was so wide he__ have had to break it into sections to fit it through a doorway

The cork was in the bottle. He and the Atropos were trapped.

At last he was to feel that he had the town, as it were, in his pocket, and was ready for anything. Accordingly he sent a confidential messenger to Rome, to ask his father what step he should next take, his power in Gabii being, by God's grace, by this time absolute. Tarquin, I suppose, was not sure of the messenger's good faith: in any case, he said not a word in reply to his question, but with a thoughtful air went out to the garden. The man followed him, and Tarquin, strolling up and down in silence, began knocking off poppy-heads with his stick. The messenger at last wearied of putting his question and waiting for the reply, so he returned to Gabii supposing his mission to have failed. He told Sextus what he had said and what he had seen his father do: the king, he declared, whether from anger, or hatred, or natural arrogance, had not uttered a single word. Sextus realized that though his father had not spoken, he had, by his action, indirectly expressed his meaning clearly enough; so he proceeded at once to act upon his murderous instructions.

Did you ever get the feeling that everything was too perfect? Like the moment was so good that something had to be wrong? Kind of like the way a fish sees that bright, shiny lure just before it chomps down and gets hauled out of water to become someone's lunch.

My mother always says that love is like a snakebite, a venom slowly spreading through your veins.

Soft hearts provide poor harbor; tin hearts can better stand against time and bad weather, thin and hollow as they are. So you pray to change from flesh to metal, and the dying Author of the world hears your plea and performs his final miracle. He lays His hand on you and then He vanishes. And what mortal man can undo that? What human on this earth has the power to change a tin man back to flesh?

The Americans_ great wealth (and their great love for it) makes it precisely the appropriate metaphor. Supply and Demand as a principle has permeated their minds. As a practice, it stains all the way down to their souls.

in our culture, women can do anything a man can. and vice versa."don alfonso's eyebrows shot up. "i do not believe it.""it's true," sally said defiantly."in America, the women hunt while the men have babies?

Metaphorically, organizations are like vegetable gardens, where each capability is a different type of vegetable growing in the garden.

The familiar song of a night-singing nightingale rises from somewhere in the garden. A nightingale that in this season of cold should not be in the garden, a nightingale that in a thousand verses of Iranian poetry, in the hours of darkness, for the love of a red rose and in sorrow of its separation from it, has forever sung and will forever sing.

His studies were always second to Beatrice. He would've said everything was second to Beatrice but the flowery metaphors and literary devices can only stretch so far and for so many characters.

You put the thing that does the killing between your teeth, but you never give it the power to kill you

And feast on the dead, I thought with a shudder. As if he could read my thoughts, he pressed a hand to my shoulder. His fingers were long and white, splaying over my arm like a waxen spider. If the gesture was meant to comfort me, it failed.

The whole universe is like some big FedEx box.