metaphor

My months are spent preparing for the fall.

They leave to test the waters but fail to realize the waters are full of rapids.

You were like fine wine, but cheap wine gets you drunk faster.

I loved you with texture. You loved with a softness. Texture brought detail, softness brought folds. Folds brought creases and creases had secrets.

You were a rhyme who mattered, a being who slipped all too often.

We were as big as the ocean, but as fragile as an ego.

I was running and deliberately lost my way. The world far off and nothing but my breath and the very next step and it__ like hypnosis. The feeling of conquering my own aliveness with no task but to keep going, making every way the right away and that__ a metaphor for everything.

The metaphor is probably the most fertile power possessed by man

It's a mind, it works by metaphor.

She was a mind floating in an ocean of confusion.

Subjective conscious mind is an analog of what is called the real world. It is built up with a vocabulary or lexical field whose terms are all metaphors or analogs of behavior in the physical world_concrete metaphors increase enormously our powers of perception of the world about us and our understanding of it, and literally create new objects.

The mind is a metaphor of the world of objects.

No more light answers. Let our officersHave note what we purpose. I shall breakThe cause of our expedience to the QueenAnd get her leave to part. For not aloneThe death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,Do strongly speak to us, but the letters tooOf many our contriving friends in RomePetition us at home. Sextus PompeiusHath given the dare to Caesar and commandsThe empire of the sea. Our slippery people,Whose love is never linked to the deserverTill his deserts are past, begin to throwPompey the Great and all his dignitiesUpon his son, who - high in name and power,Higher than both in blood and life - stands upFor the main soldier; whose quality, going on,The sides o' th' world may danger. Much is breedingWhich, like the courser's hair, hath yet but lifeAnd not a serpent's poison.

But unlike Mama, I would not go to heaven. My secrets padlocked the gates. I'd be a torn kite stuck in the dead branches of a tree, unable to fly.

It's a commonly expressed and rather nice, romantic notion that we are all "sisters" and "brot

What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms _ in short, a sum of human relations, which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.

I don't pay much attention to the distinction between fantasy and science fiction__r between __enre_ and __ainstream_ for that matter. For me, all fiction is about prizing the logic of metaphors-which is the logic of narratives in general__ver reality, which is irreducibly random and senseless.We spend our entire lives trying to tell stories about ourselves__hey__e the essence of memory. It is how we make living in this unfeeling accidental universe tolerable. That we call such a tendency __he narrative fallacy_ doesn__ mean it doesn__ also touch upon some aspect of the truth.Some stories simply literalize their metaphors a bit more explicitly.

Her heart longed for some ark into which it could fly and be at rest. Rough or smooth she did not care, so long as it was warm.