Best 222 quotes in «simile quotes» category

It was something quite special, that feeling: an oppressive, hideous constraint as if I were sitting with the small ghost of somebody I had just killed.

I wanted to hold onto the house the way you'd hold onto a love letter. It was proof that I had not always been completely alone in the world. But I think I was also holding on to the loss, to the emptiness of the house itself, as though to affirm that it was better to be alone than to be stuck with people who were supposed to love you, yet couldn't.

I was confused by this sudden glare of attention; it was as if the characters in a favorite painting, absorbed in their own concerns, had looked up out of the canvas and spoken to me.

I was wary of my sister's cooking, which invariably consisted of a tubular pasta and economy cheese, charred black on the surface, with either tinned tuna or lardy mince lurking beneath the molten crust ... So that evening, in a tiny flat in Tooting, I was pushed into the tiny kitchen where sixteen people sat crammed around a tiny trestle table designed for pasting wallpaper, one of my sister's notorious pasta bakes smouldering in its centre like a meteorite, smelling of toasted cat food.

Lugh's decided to stick with bein mad at me. It's like traveling with a storm cloud. One of them that hangs low an heavy. The kind that builds an broods an keeps on buildin an brood in till everybody's got a sick headache.

...love is like health. It is taken lightly when present and cherished when it departs.

M. and I ground against each other as if we were ill-fitting jigsaw pieces determined to jam together, even though one showed sidewalk, the other sky.

Maybe the siren was was a fire truck? Mercer couldn't see one anywhere, but like some bounding St. Bernard of the metaphysical, he couldn't quite let go of the belief that there must be an objective reality out there, beyond his own head.

My body felt like tangled rubber bands and dried-out pens and sticky paper clips, like the contents of a drawer where you put the things you don't have anywhere else to put, and I knew that the mind and body are connected, and that my bodily sensations were just messages from my mind, but I just wished there was a box or a drawer or a hole in the ground where I could put all this, all this mind and body stuff that I didn't know what else to do with.

My body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

My head is already stuffed with grief I suppose like a pomegranate with its red seeds. I can only bleed grief, having no room for more.

My mind spun like the flywheel on an antique John Deere, merry-go-round during second-grade recess, hard spun roulette wheel.

Nanny's words made Janie's kiss across the gatepost seem like a manure pile after a rain

Nadine found herself standing in front of a row of streaming faces, like waxworks of forgotten celebrities being melted down before coming back as more contemporary figures.

Night is brushed aside like so much cobweb. The day is wound up and begins even before the last haunted dreams, the last of the fog, those spectral and evanescent residues, have faded away.

Night-time is being brushed aside like so much cobweb. The day is wound up and begins even before the last haunted dreams, the last of the fog, those spectral and evanescent residues, have faded away.

No level raised without reading, is like a body trying to live without breathing.

On occasion I read Raymond Chandler although I have certain reservations about this author. Chandler, while obviously a master of his craft, makes overuse of simile, to my annoyance.

Mori smiled properly. The lines around his eyes were deeper than usual now. They made him look like an old photograph of a young man, often crushed, but ironed carefully so that only the ghosts of the marks remained.

Once, a Whimsical poet died of despair after finding himself unequal to the task of capturing a fair one's beauty in simile. I think it more likely he died of arsenic poisoning, but so the story goes.

Opinions are like onions. They spell similarly, usually have many layers, and tend to make people cry.

Outside, the engine-sound of the Desperation police-cruiser grew fatter and closer. A little farther off, the coyotes howled. To David that howling had begun to sound like the laughter of lunatics after the keepers have decamped the asylum.

Our house was like sleeping beauties palace after the enchanted spell is cast

Phyllida's hair was where her power resided. It was expensively set into a smooth dome, like a band shell for the presentation of that long-running act, her face.

Poetry comes out of you like a pot of oatmeal boiling over.

Polish the young woman’s ego like wax on a wood floor, Shinola on shoes, spit on an apple.

Rang in my ears like Easter morning churchbells in Rome, rumble from an unmuffled Harley, fireworks shells exploding over a Fourth-of-July parade.

Probing the corners of the room like a caged cat, fly caught in a jar, fart in an elevator.

Questions swirled in my brain like terrified bait minnows in a bucket.

Reading it was like subletting a small apartment in someone else's head.

Screamed like a manic cheerleader heaping encouragement on her high school’s punt returner as he breaks through the first wall of blocks.

Right now I felt like a person learning that a surgeon had left a pair of scissors inside her during a operation.

Sex is like air; it's not important unless you aren't getting any.

...shame spreads through his body like a drop of red dye in water.

Past love is as good as a past dream, intangible, impossible to share.

She doesn't know what to call it—this free-falling sensation she feels every time she looks at Taylor, like her hands are closing again and again on emptiness—but she thinks she knows better than to call it love.

She had the world’s worst poker face: her feelings floated across them like reflections on a still pond.

She looked at the ceiling, eyelashes batting like hummingbird wings.

... she looked a hundred years older, as stale and ruined as yesterday's oatmeal.

She pinched her lips tight together, like someone considering a foul smell, three-legged dog, ugly baby.

She met my gaze with those big, innocent eyes that could probably convince the devil he needed an extra blanket.

She smiled like knife on a velvet, she stretched like cat on the sun.

She was alone like a cat, like an owl, as if she walked unobserved, out of her human life.

She crooned on until her cigarette was gone. The ash in the wind blew around us like hesitant snow.

Sitting in an armchair under yellow lamplight in front of a black window in an apartment whose only other light was the milky rainbow of the Wurlitzer, Richard was like a giant, welcoming ear. Or a reflecting device, beaming her best self back at her.

Smiled like a homecoming queen, Pit Bull Terrier with a new collar, actress on the Letterman show.

Snatched away like socks glommed off the sale table at Wal-Mart, dog treat snapped up by an eager German Sheppard, mouse picked off the lawn by a swooping owl.

Smoked like it was fuel and he was going to get every last inch to the gallon.

Some comparisons are comparable to comparing apples and oranges’ seeds.

Spring came down hard that year. And I do mean hard, like the fist of some drunken pike poker with too much fury and not enough ale, whose wife just left him for some wandering minstrel and whose commanding officer absconded with his pay.