Best 222 quotes in «simile quotes» category

Time unlived grows old Like unworn robes in a locked chest.

Tourists hurried past them on the pedestrian-only street like chickens scampering to the feeder, cars scurrying through a tollgate, Niagara River rushing into the falls.

Unfathomable. Fathoms. I wonder is that the difficulty, that my memories and my imaginings are lying deeply in the same place? Or one on top of the other like layers of shells and sand in a piece of limestone, so that they have become the same element, and I cannot distinguish one from the other with any ease, unless it is from close, close looking? Which is why I am so afraid to speak to Dr. Grene, lest I give him only imaginings. Imaginings. A nice sort of a word for catastrophe and delusion.

Vanished like inhibitions at a bachelorette party.

Was she Minh Thuy, finally, or was she Jenny? But the time when there had been a meaningful difference between the two would come to seem like a tiny neighborhood where you couldn't decide which house was yours. Which felt important when you were high above, you thought, in the foothills, but not so much at the truer remove of a continent, where the lives you'd lived and the places you'd come from, dwindled to a single point on the horizon, in the incorrigibly distant past.

Washed-out like last year’s swimsuit.

We topped a rise just then, and the moor stretched out ahead of us, silvery-white and rustling, like a wide ghostly sea. In the distance lay Grimsgrave Hall, black and hulking as a ship adrift on moonlit waves.

We tried mindspeech again. I had never before sent repeatedly to a total non-receiver. The experience was disagreeable. I began to feel like an atheist praying.

Whatever it was went through me like a rifle rag. Come dawn, me date was so hot you could have lit a sparkplug off of it.

We were a bit like bacon and eggs, where y'know, the chicken is involved, but the pig is really committed? I totally gave myself to it just as we promised, "for better or worse", and you didn't see it like that.

Whacked away under the desk like hail on a barn roof.

When I was small my mother tried to teach me the colors. "Blue," she said, pointing to the sky. And "blue" again, the second time pointing to the water. She told me I shook my head because I could see that sky blue was not always the same as water blue. It took me a long time-until I lived in Oria- to use the same word for all the shades of a color... Love has different shades. Like the way I loved Cassia when I thought she'd never love me. The way I loved her on The Hill. The way I love her now that she came into the canyon for me. It's different. Deeper. I thought I loved her and wanted her before, but as we walk through the canyon together I realize this could be more than a new shade. A whole new color.

When I read it now it's like I have broken into a reality that is not mine, and when I step out of it, as if I had removed my headphones and heard the city again, it is easy to close the door behind me.

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.

Wrinkles appeared and disappeared as he squinted his eyes and relaxed them, like someone peering into a strobe light, police car-top beacon, flashing neon beer sign.

When she did walk, to the bathroom between the chairs and the customers leaning back in them, oblivious to her manoeuvres, the sight felt strangely moving and profound, like a baby, or a veteran getting out of a wheelchair, or a deer in snow. That is perhaps overdoing it. Maybe I didn't quite know that at the time, but it was striking. If you have not seen a deer in snow, I mean: moving with precision, but as if she might leap away in a completely different direction at any moment.

Yes, boys are a little like shoes. Why? Well...They can be useful. But mainly...They are nice to look at. Getting the right one can be a lovely accessory to an outfit. There are times when you couldn't do without them. And there are times when you'd rather do without them. Get the wrong ones and they can hurt. There are many types and often the ones that look the nicest are completely unpractical.

You are nothing like my father. And like my father you are nothing.

You know, a cell phone's like a guy; if you don't plug him in every night, charge him good, you got nothing at all.

You're about as subtle as a fucking train wreck. On a boat.

You," Madeline said, her voice hollow and wheezing, "are like a bad case of herpes, wizard. You're inconvenient, embarassing, no real threat, and you simply will not go away.

Your eyes flash like Fourth-of-July sparklers, headlights on a mountain road, sparks in a short-circuited toaster.

A simile is just a metaphor with the scaffolding still up.

Your lies are like a silent fart. Can't see 'em, but I can smell 'em.

I don't know a whole lot about symbolism. There seems to me to be a potential danger in symbolism. I feel more comfortable with metaphors and similes.

Good similes depend upon close observation. They depend upon brevity and wit....They have to fit in context.

717! You are behaving like a demented bluebottle - stop that!

Metaphors and Similes are the beginning of the democratic system of envy.

Abandoned like an empty beer bottle, cigarette butt, worn-out shoe.

Above the front door the fanlight glowed blue, delicate as wing-bones.

Similes prove nothing, but yet greatly lighten and relieve the tedium of argument.

A funny thing happened post-diagnosis. They put him on drugs, things went up and down, but he lived. He lived. It was like a waiting room where they kept not calling your name.

A friend... sort of. Ren watches me like I'm a cookie jar he wouldn't mind being caught with his hands in.

After a few days of rain, the seedlings will push through the soil and unfold their tiny leaves. Two weeks later, if the rain is still good, we then carefully apply the first round of fertilizer, because each seedling requires love and attention like any living thing if it's going to grow up strong.

Already my childhood seemed far away—a remote age, faded and bittersweet, like dried flowers. Did I regret its loss, did I want it back? I didn't think so.

Along its raw dirt floor, puddles of afternoon rain reflected the starlit sky, like jagged slivers of mirror.

An anxious heart is like a string that's out of tune.

And then it happens. He smiles. And his whole face unfastens like a window blowing open into the breeze, letting in the fresh air and sunshine.

And then it hits me like a fast, open-palmed, stinging smack in the face. Having a ghost boyfriend WAS weird

Breathed like a contestant in a polka marathon, sit-up contest, stationary bike race.

Andy: ugh I’ve never felt so old and slimy. Sinter: You’re 25. That isn’t old to a 19 year old Andy: Old. And slimy. Slimy like a slug. Like seaweed. Sinter: Are you done with your metaphors Andy: I think these are similes Though he’d been a computer science major, he’d also been, like me, an English minor. It made him remarkably hot at moments such as this. Sinter: Right, you’re right Andy: And no. There are many slimy things and I’m like them all. Slimy like mayo Sinter: Gross Andy: Exactly, I am gross Sinter: Ha no, mayo is gross Andy: Slimy like a dog’s tongue. Sinter: Seriously stop.

A novel rough draft is like bread dough; you need to beat the crap out of it for it to rise.

. . . a shrunken old man, squashed into the chair like a stubbed-out cigarette.

A surprising number, like options in the cereal aisle, liberal studies graduates working fast food, people who don’t know Shakespeare coined the phrase break the ice.

An old trailer flashed by, the round sort that had always looked to her like a thermos bottle, as if the people inside needed protection against rot.

.. a simile is not a lie, unless it is a bad simile.

As she spoke she changed in some provocative way, seemed suddenly drenched in eroticism as a diver rising out of a pool gleams like chrome with a sheet of unbroken water for a fractional moment.

As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon like a leaky boat. Well, except for that fact that boats are not generally round, orange and on fire. Hmm. Come to think of it, in no way whatsoever did the sun, in this instance, resemble a leaky boat. My apologies. That was a dreadful attempt at simile. Please allow me to try again. As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, the sun was slowly sinking below the horizon like a self-luminous, gaseous sphere comprised mainly of of hydrogen and helium.

Augustin stood there looking down at him and cursed him speaking slowly clearly bitterly and contemptuously and cursing as steadily as though he were dumping manure on a field lifting it with a dung fork out of a wagon.

But I was still anxious. Trevor Trevor Trevor. I might have felt better if he were dead, I thought, since behind every memory of him was the possibility of reconciling, and thus more heartbreak and indignity. I felt weak. My nerves were frayed and fragile, like tattered silk. Sleep had not yet solved my crankiness, my impatience, my memory. It seemed like everything was now somehow linked to getting back what I'd lost. I could picture my selfhood, my past, my psyche like a dump truck filled with trash. Sleep was the hydraulic piston that lifted the bed of the truck up, ready to dump everything out somewhere, but Trevor was stuck in the tailgate, blocking the flow of garbage. I was afraid things would be like that forever.