by Mardy Grothe
The greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor.
This alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius,
for to make good metaphors implies an eye for resemblance.
While I disagree that a command of metaphor cannot be imparted by the right teacher, I agree that there is a certain talent—even a kind of genius—involved in finding something in common between very different domains of life. Robert Frost said it well:
An idea is a feat of association,
and the height of it is a good metaphor.
A keen eye for resemblance, to use Aristotle’s phrase, is a rare gift, but it may also be an essential skill for a person who is trying to express a powerful idea in an original way. And once people make a connection between two different domains, they often take the initial metaphor and tweak it with an additional thought, leaving us with truly memorable observations:
The world is a book,
and those who do not travel read only one page.
ST. AUGUSTINE
Medicine is my lawful wife and literature my mistress;
when I tire of one, I spend the night with the other.
ANTON CHEKHOV
Art at its most significant is a Distant Early Warning System
that can always be relied on
to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.
MARSHALL MCLUHAN
Observations like these—and many, many more to be found later—may help you appreciate another observation from Aristotle, this from his classic Rhetoric:
It is metaphor above all else that gives
clearness, charm, and distinction to the style.
So far, we’ve examined analogies and metaphors. But when it comes to making connections between dissimilar things, there’s a third major player in the drama.
SIMILE
Webster’s New World Dictionary defines simile this way:
A figure of speech in which one thing is likened to another, dissimilar thing by the use of “like,” “as,” etc. (“a heart as big as a whale,” “her tears flowed like wine”).
Simile and the related word similar derive from the Latin similis, meaning “like.” The word has an even longer history in English than metaphor, making its first written appearance in English in 1393 in William Langland’s Piers Plowman. Similes share with analogies and metaphors the goal of relating one thing to another, but they do it in a slightly different way. Look at these quotations:
Books are like imprisoned souls
till someone takes them down from a shelf and frees them.
SAMUEL BUTLER
Books…are like lobster shells,
we surround ourselves with ’em,
then we grow out of ’em and leave ’em behind,
as evidence of our earlier stage of development.
DOROTHY L. SAYERS
No furniture is so charming as books.
SYDNEY SMITH
These observations help us see books—among our most familiar possessions—in new ways. And because of the words like and as, they are classified as similes.
In many observations, the presence or absence of only one word separates a simile from a metaphor. An ancient Chinese proverb—written when many books were available in smaller editions—once offered the lovely idea that a book was like a portable garden we could take with us in our travels. The proverb, as usually presented, is a perfect simile, but by deleting one word it is transformed from one figure of speech into another:
Simile: A book is like a garden carried in the pocket.
Metaphor: A book is a garden carried in the pocket.
In a simile, there is an explicit comparison—one thing is said to be like something else. In a metaphor, there is no comparison because the two things are treated as identical (an implicit comparison, it is often said). Similes are similar to—but distinctly different from—metaphors, and they can be equally impressive:
Writers, like teeth, are divided into incisors and grinders.
WALTER BAGEHOT
Justice is like a train that’s nearly always late.
YEVGENY YEVTUSHENKO
While some people make a big deal out of the difference between similes and metaphors, there is a great deal of truth in a joke that has long been popular among teachers of English:
A simile is like a metaphor.
In his 1955 book on style, the poet and critic F. L. Lucas put it this way: “The simile sets two ideas side by side; in the metaphor they become superimposed.” Here’s a quick structural overview:
An analogy says that A is to B as C is to D.
A metaphor says that A is B, or substitutes B for A.
A simile says that A is like B.
In addition to like or as, several other words and expressions indicate the presence of a simile. A common one is than, as in “faster than a speeding bullet” or “sharper than a serpent’s tooth,” as in this classic line from Shakespeare’s King Lear:
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth
It is to have a thankless child.
Here are some more expressions that signal the use of a simile:
is similar to
may be compared to
is akin to
is comparable to
puts one in mind of
is a kind of
as though
can be likened to
is the same as
is not unlike
is not dissimilar to
may be seen as
In the world of figurative language, similes have long taken a back seat to the more glamorous metaphor. Aristotle preferred metaphors over similes, and language snobs have slavishly followed his example for centuries. But what similes lack in prestige they make up for in frequency. Here is just a sampling of similes that are a staple of everyday speech:
busy as a bee
hard as a rock
thin as a rail
dry as a bone
sharper than a tack
happy as a clam
selling like hotcakes
fit as a fiddle
proud as a peacock
stubborn as a mule
soft as a pillow
cuter than a button
light as a feather
smooth as silk
higher than a kite
slow as molasses
spread like wildfire
shaking like a leaf
sly as a fox
smart as a whip
fresh as a daisy
Expressions like these are often the first things that come to mind when people are asked to provide a simile. And while they may have been quite original when first employed, they’ve now become clichés. It is likely that these stale, trite, and hackneyed expressions are responsible for diminishing the reputation of similes in the minds of so many people.
Similes do not have to be bland and uninspired, however, and in the hands of gifted writers they can be raised to the level of an art form. John Updike once wrote:
Critics are like pigs at the pastry cart.
The observation illustrates one of the things I love most about metaphorical language. When imaginatively conceived they’re like beautiful word paintings. In Updike’s observation, we can easily visualize a pastry cart piled high with a variety of beautifully presented literary delicacies. Gathering around the cart are a group of swine, clearly out of place in a swanky establishment. The pigs—well known for favoring slop but willing to eat just about anything—are clearly incapable of appreciating the quality of the treats they’re about to devour.
Another unforgettable word picture comes from Stephen King. With grand dreams of ultimately becoming a writer, he took a job teaching high school English after graduating from college. He didn’t last long. Exhausted after planning lessons and correcting students’ papers, he was sapped of any energy he might have devoted to writing. He described the experience vividly:
Teaching school is like<
br />
having jumper cables hooked to your brain,
draining all the juice out of you.
While similes are generally contrasted with metaphors, they actually have more in common with analogies. Indeed, when a simile is slightly extended, it has an A is to B as C is to D structure that makes it virtually indistinguishable from an analogy. This has resulted in much confusion. For example, in the American Heritage Dictionary, Shakespeare’s “So are you to my thoughts as food to life” is given as an example of a simile. In my mind, though, I see Shakespeare identifying a proportionate relationship between two sets of things—you to my thoughts and food to life—and view it as an analogy.
Some similes are deliciously entertaining, as when Norman Mailer compared his regular novels with the ones that had been adapted to the film world:
Novels are like wives; you don’t talk about them.
But movies are different; they’re like mistresses, and you can brag a bit.
Some are highly unusual but oddly compelling. In The Book on Writing (2003), Paula La Rocque quotes Roger Angell writing about Barry Bonds:
Bonds…stands in the middle of the Giants’ batting order
like an aneurysm.
Like an aneurysm? Well, think about it for a moment. Whether you love or loathe major league baseball’s all-time home-run champ, Angell’s simile perfectly describes what I have seen for years when Bonds is at the plate—a player who is about to explode.
Some similes are educational as well as entertaining, making us wish that more teachers would make them a part of the instructional process:
A dependent clause is like a dependent child:
incapable of standing on its own but able to cause a lot of trouble.
WILLIAM SAFIRE
Having seen numerous accolades delivered to metaphors, I consider it a treat to see kudos occasionally tossed in the direction of this less heralded figure of speech. In 2006, the popular syndicated columnist James J. Kilpatrick wrote of the simile:
It’s the most familiar of all literary enbellishments,
in a class with a wedge of lemon or a sprig of parsley.
It can raise a cupcake to the level of a petit four.
Lovely as Kilpatrick’s thought is, it would be wrong to view the simile as a mere garnish or an ornament to thought. As all language lovers know, similes can be intellectually nourishing as well as tasty. And when similes and metaphors are seamlessly interwoven—as they often are—we are treated to language that is enlivened and ideas that are brought to life:
Society is like a stew.
If you don’t stir it up every once in a while,
then a layer of scum floats to the top.
EDWARD ABBEY
We can think of history as a kind of layer cake
in which a number of different layers run side by side through time,
each with a dynamic of its own, and yet each from time
to time profoundly penetrating and interacting with others.
KENNETH E. BOULDING
Men resemble great deserted palaces:
the owner occupies only a few rooms
and has closed-off wings where he never ventures.
FRANÇOIS MAURIAC
We could go on and on about these three superstars of figurative language, and even explore some of their close relatives—like personification, allegory, fable, and parable—but it’s time to bring this introductory chapter to a close. Before we do, let’s review where we’ve come so far. We began by talking about how the prose we read and hear on a regular basis is stale, dull, and uninspired. However, when writers and orators consciously employ a variety of linguistic tools that have been well known for three thousand years, prose can be elevated to such a degree it rivals the grace and beauty of poetry. Of the many stylistic devices that are available, we have focused on the Big Three—analogies, metaphors, and similes.
The rest of the book is a compilation of nearly two thousand quotations, all formed by the use of analogies, metaphors, and similes. The book is organized into topics—like politics, sports, sex, and love—but I’ve decided to give each chapter a metaphorical title.
Some titles—like “Sports Is the Toy Department of Life”—clearly indicate the subject of the chapter. Other titles are not so obvious. The very next chapter—the most personal in the book—is titled “An Ice-Axe for the Frozen Sea Within.” The meaning of the title will become clear to you shortly, but I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say that the metaphor—from Franz Kafka—may forever alter the way you look at your book-reading efforts. The table of contents at the beginning of the book provides all the chapter titles as well as the subject area of each one.
In each chapter, I’ll begin by introducing the subject in a way that I hope will whet your interest. After a few foundation-laying pages, I’ll present a wide variety of quotations that fit within the theme of the chapter. In every chapter except one—which I’ll explain when you get there—the quotations will be arranged alphabetically by author. If you want to locate observations from a particular person, consult the Author Index.
Throughout the book, you will occasionally find brief commentary after a quotation. In general, this will be my attempt to explain an observation, tell you something about the author, or provide some other information to enhance your appreciation of the quotation.
This book is aimed at readers who have a deep interest in seeing language used in creative ways. It should also appeal to readers with a professional interest in language and the effective presentation of ideas: writers, poets, journalists, speakers, preachers, speechwriters, and teachers, especially those who teach writing, poetry, and public speaking.
In his 1625 classic Essays, the great English man of letters Francis Bacon wrote:
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed,
and some few to be chewed and digested.
I’m not exactly sure where this book belongs in Bacon’s scheme of things, but I do know one thing for sure about how to approach this book. Go slowly. Like a museum curator putting together a special art exhibition, I have attempted to compile some of history’s greatest word paintings. So, just as you would be ill advised to rush through an art museum, it would be a mistake to speed-read your way through this book. Take the time to savor the observations and to admire the skill that was required to create them.
Professionally, I’ve been a psychologist for over thirty years. Personally, I’m a voracious reader and a serious quotation collector. Just as some people collect coins, or stamps, or butterflies, I collect quotations. I’ve been doing it for more than four decades, and I now have hundreds of thousands of specimens in my personal collection.
This is my fourth book in the word and language arena and like the previous ones, it has been a labor of love. But the process of writing a book is always more fun at the beginning and middle stages than at the end. For the past six weeks, with a production deadline staring me in the face, the project has consumed my life. Winston Churchill described the process best, and he did it metaphorically:
Writing a book is an adventure.
To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement;
then it becomes a mistress,
and then it becomes a master, and then a tyrant.
The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your
servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him out to the public.
Before I fling this monster in your direction, let me add one more thing. While I’ve been committed to accuracy, I’m sure I’ve made some mistakes. If you discover any errors or would simply like to offer some feedback, please write me in care of the publisher or e-mail me at DrMGrothe@aol. com.
I’ve also launched a Web site where you can delve into the topic a bit deeper or sign up for my free weekly e-newsletter (“Dr. Mardy’s Quotes of the Week”). Come up and visit sometime: www.MetaphorAmor.com.
chapter 1
An Ice-Axe For the Frozen Sea Wi
thin
It was early winter, 1962, and I was in the middle of my junior year at the University of North Dakota. A charismatic American president with a grand vision had been in office for nearly two years, and a movement for racial equality, led by an eloquent Southern preacher with an equally grand vision, was beginning to take root all over the country.
I was not tuned into these developments, though, for my priorities lay elsewhere. I was president of my fraternity, vice-president of the student senate, a member of the prestigious Blue Key service fraternity, and an officer of Golden Feather, a highly selective pep club that had the enviable task of selecting cheerleaders for the school’s athletic teams. I was, to use a popular expression of the era, a Big Man on Campus (BMOC). From the outside, I seemed to be leading a full and exciting life. On the inside, I felt cold and empty.
To the extent I had thought it out—which, in truth, was not very much—I had hoped my extracurricular activities would bring me happiness and satisfaction. But instead of feeling good about my accomplishments and better about myself, I was discovering that the path I’d been walking down was not taking me to a place where I wanted to go.
I’m not exactly sure what precipitated the decision, but somewhere in the middle of the school year, I impulsively—and, in hindsight, ungracefully—resigned from almost all the groups that up to that point had been so important to me. My fraternity brothers and quite a few other people viewed my decision as a personal rejection, and for a time I was persona non grata with many former friends. Feeling alone and afraid, I took a small room in the basement of an off-campus apartment and began a program of intense reading and reflection. With the help of several people who agreed to serve as guides, I began reading as much as I could from a dozen or so writers, including Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and a newcomer on the intellectual scene, the 1960 winner of the Nobel Prize, Albert Camus.
