Charlie and the Metaphor Factory

Some Bad Suspense Novel Metaphors or Similes

The situation had become topsy-turvy -- like Christmas in the summer, if you're in Australia.

The information imbedded on the stolen computer chip was like an explosive so explosive it could explode, creating a massive explosion.

The killer was a misplaced comma in the jaunty, happy sentence that made up the party crowd.

His face looked like an ice sculpture. Not one of those pretty ones in the middle of a cruise ship buffet, but the kind they do in a contest with a chainsaw -- and it had been out in the heat too long.

Like any family, this house had its secrets, secrets it grimly refused to reveal, and would continue to refuse to reveal even if it could speak, which unlike a family, or at least most members of most families, it couldn't.

From his vantage point in the balcony, the would-be assassin looked down on the debating candidates like a webhead looking down on an AOL user.

The sudden darkness made the Countess tense, like Bobby Jerome that time with the bicycle in 7th grade, remember?

There was something funny about the kidnapping crime scene that Special Agent Frievald couldn't quite place, and the thought stuck with him throughout the rest of the day, like those tiny little bits of the circumferent skin from the bologna slices on a foot-long Subway Cold Cut Trio that get stuck in between the last two molars on the upper left, on the tongue side where you can't possibly reach them with a toothpick, your fingernails, or even a systematically straightened paper clip, they just sit there and make everything you eat at your next meal taste vaguely like vinegar and mayonnaise, and then somehow -- quietly but miraculously -- they disappear by themselves in the middle of the night while you're asleep, just like the visiting Countess appeared to have done.

Her parting words lingered heavily inside me like last night's Taco Bell.

A single drop of sweat slowly inched down Chad's brow -- a tiny, glistening Times Square New Year's Eve Ball of desperation.

His .38 barked fire, like John Goodman's butt after a chili cookoff.

Her blazing eyes dance like Astaire and Rogers, but since they were crossed, it was an ocular tango, and my eyes had to foxtrot just to maintain eye contact.

She had a voice so husky it could have pulled a dogsled.

The neon sign reflected off his gun, like the moonlight reflects off my brother-in-law's bald head after a night of beer drinking and cow-tipping.

and the Number 1 Bad Suspense Novel Metaphor or Simile...

Unable to contain his rage, he burst like a pimple of emotion, the pus of his fury streaking the mirror of calm in the bathroom of his life.

From The Boston Globe

School Library Does Away With Books
by Tom Henderson Sep 17th 2009 5:12AM

Something you won't see anymore at a New England prep school: library books.

The last thing a school library needs these days is books, the headmaster of a New England prep school told the Boston Globe.

What it really needs is a good cappuccino machine.

James Tracy, headmaster of the Cushing Academy in Ashburnham, Conn., told the Globe that ink on paper is so 20th century. So his school library is doing away with it -- and its 20,000 books.

"When I look at books, I see an outdated technology like scrolls before books,' Tracy told the (pardon the expression) paper.

He swears this isn't a school production of "Fahrenheit 451," Ray Bradbury's cautionary tale about books being burned in an anti-intellectual hysteria.

"We're not discouraging students from reading," he told the paper. "We see this as a natural way to shape emerging trends and optimize technology."

Administrators at the 144-year-old prep school 90 minutes west of Boston have already given away many of the library's previous collection of classics, poetry and reference material. They are choosing instead to spend $500,000 on a digital "learning center" that will include flat-screen TVs for cruising the Internet as well as cubbies designed for laptops and a coffee shop with a $12,000 cappuccino machine.

The TV sets alone will cost $42,000, according to the Globe.

Liz Vezina, Cushing's school librarian for the past 17 years, told the Globe she will miss the books.

"I love books," she said. "I grew up with them, and there's something lost when they're virtual. There's a sensual side to them -- the smell, feel. The physicality of a book is something really special."

William Powers, the author of the upcoming book "Hamlet's Blackberry: Why Paper is Eternal," told the Globe the changes at Cushing are as depressing as they are radical.

"There are modes of learning and thinking that at the moment are only available from actual books," he told the paper.

"There is a kind deep-dive, meditative reading that's almost impossible to do on the screen. Without books, students are more likely to do the grazing or quick reading that screens enable rather than be by themselves with the author's ideas."

For The Love Of W’s

I stumbled upon this story and I had to share it.

The story is called “Walter & Winnie” and it was published in the 19th century by an unknown author. Perhaps our old friend Anon was having a spectacular day?

Here’s how it begins:

“Warm weather, Walter! Welcome warm weather! We were wishing winter would wane, weren’t we?” “We were well wearied with waiting,” whispered Walter wearily. Wan, white, woe-begone was Walter; wayward, wilful, worn with weakness, wasted, waxing weaker whenever winter’s wild, withering winds were wailing. Wholly without waywardness was Winifred, Walter’s wise, womanly watcher, who, with winsome, wooing way, was well-beloved."




So I did some searching and found Lem’s classic:

Seduced, shaggy Samson snored.
She scissored short. Sorely shorn,
Soon shackled slave, Samson sighed.
Silently scheming,
Sightlessly seeking
Some savage, spectacular suicide.

~ Stanislaw Lem, The Cyberiad (translated by Michael Kandel)



Perhaps, in a future post, I could write an article about Atticus: an alarmingly abstract agitator?

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There is one other item I want to share today. It was sent to me by my cousin Dottie. It is a wonderful play on and with a word. Thank you Dottie!

You will know precisely what this little girl is talking about at the end.

'Danielle keeps repeating it over and over again. We've been back to this animal shelter at least five times. It has been weeks now since we started all of this,' the mother told the volunteer.

'What is it she keeps asking for?' the volunteer asked.

'Puppy size!' replied the mother.

'Well, we have plenty of puppies, if that's what she's looking for.'

'I know..... We have seen most of them,' the mom said in frustration...

Just then Danielle came walking into the office.

'Well, did you find one?' asked her mom.

'No, not this time,' Danielle said with sadness in her voice. 'Can we come back on the weekend?'

The two women looked at each other, shook their heads and laughed.

'You never know when we will get more dogs. Unfortunately, there's always a supply,' the volunteer said.

Danielle took her mother by the hand and headed to the door. 'Don't worry, I'll find one this weekend,' she said.

Over the next few days both Mom and Dad had long conversations with her. They both felt she was being too particular.. 'It's this weekend or we're not looking any more,' Dad finally said in frustration.

'We don't want to hear anything more about puppy size, either,' Mom added.

Sure enough, they were the first ones in the shelter on Saturday morning .. By now Danielle knew her way around, so she ran right for the section that housed the smaller dogs.

Tired of the routine, mom sat in the small waiting room at the end of the first row of cages. There was an observation window so you could see the animals during times when visitors weren't permitted.

Danielle walked slowly from cage to cage, kneeling periodically to take a closer look. One by one the dogs were brought out and she held each one. One by one she said, 'Sorry, but you're not the one.'

It was the last cage on this last day in search of the perfect pup. The volunteer opened the cage door and the child carefully picked up the dog and held it closely. This time she took a little longer.

'Mom, that's it! I found the right puppy! He's the one! I know it!' She screamed with joy. 'It's the puppy size!'

'But it's the same size as all the other puppies you held over the last few weeks,' Mom said.

'No not size... The sighs. When I held him in my arms, he sighed,' she said. 'Don't you remember? When I asked you one day what love is, you told me love depends on the sighs of your heart. The more you love, the bigger the sighs!'

The two women looked at each other for a moment. Mom didn't know whether to laugh or cry. As she stooped down to hug the child, she did a little of both.

'Mom, every time you hold me, I sigh. When you and Daddy come home from work and hug each other, you both sigh. I knew I would find the right puppy if it sighed when I held it in my arms,' she said. Then, holding the puppy up close to her face, she said, 'Mom, he loves me. I heard the sighs of his heart!'


Close your eyes for a moment and think about the love that makes you sigh. I not only find it in the arms of my loved ones, but in the caress of a sunset, the kiss of the moonlight and the gentle brush of cool air on a hot day. They are the sighs of God. Take the time to stop and listen; you will be surprised at what you hear.


'Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.'

ThingsThat Make Me [Sic] - 2

Just a quick note from Gramma Dumpstercrumpet -

I am posting today because Stan is celebrating his birthday. He is 17. Celsius.



Everyone has an opinion on whether or not English should be declared the official language of the United States. Many people are offended that this is even being considered as necessary. Many of these people have taken to protesting. Of course, with protests come signs.


I would like the authors of these signs to consider learning their official language before using it to announce their ignorance.




By the way, if these folks think that state legislatures are going to consider declaring English our official language, I offer the following picture as proof that these hard working legislators are far too busy to have time for such notions. This is NOT a doctored or photo-shopped picture! It is the Connecticut State Legislature hard at work. The picture caused quite a stir when The Hartford Courant published it!


Look carefully! Two games of Solitaire and a baseball game! Amazing!


Just how close are we to the day we visit an old friend in the cemetery?




Happy Birthday Stan!!

I Never Metaphor I Didn't Like

"A mind's reach should exceed its grasp, or what's a meta phor?" -- Anon, riffing on Browning

"Wassa meta phor you?" - Anon, auditioning for a part in "The Sopranos"

Metaphors and similes equate or compare one thing with another. They can be used to describe the unfamiliar in terms of the familiar, or to shed new light on the familiar by comparing it to something unexpected. And sometimes they can simply provide interesting or entertaining juxtapositions.

Some writers, notably some of the pulp and noir writers of the 1930s through '50s, weren't afraid to hurl themselves into a metaphor like trapeze artists, grasping at empty air until, at the final moment, just before credibility stretched to the breaking point, they closed their hands around a solid bar and found they'd successfully crossed another blind leap of faith. Just watch Raymond Chandler in a moment of acrobatic poetry: "Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness." (From chapter 23 of The Big Sleep.)

Leigh Brackett began writing sf in the 1940s, and co-wrote several well-known screenplays, including The Big Sleep (with William Faulkner!), Rio Bravo, and The Empire Strikes Back. Here are a couple of luscious tidbits of metaphor from her later work, specifically The Ginger Star, the first book of a science-fantasy trilogy featuring her adventurer hero Eric John Stark:

"Skaith's old ginger-colored sun was going down in a senile fury of crimson and molten brass, laying streaks of unhealthy brilliance across the water." (p. 5)

"A crowd gathered, clotting round Mordach's party like swarming bees." (p. 41)

Back to Chandler: "The eighty-five cent dinner tasted like a discarded mail bag and was served to me by a waiter who looked as if he would slug me for a quarter, cut my throat for six bits, and bury me at sea in a barrel of concrete for a dollar and a half, plus sales tax."

Moving right along, here's Edith Wharton, from The Age of Innocence: "The immense accretion of flesh which had descended on her in middle life like a flood of lava on a doomed city..." (p. 18, discussing Mrs. Manson Mingott, aka Catherine the Great)

The best metaphors I've encountered recently hail from West With the Night, the autobiography of Beryl Markham, an airplane pilot in Africa in the '30s who gained some renown for being the first person to cross the Atlantic solo in an airplane flying from East to West. If there were any justice, she would have gained much more renown for her writing, about which this guy you may've heard of (name of Ernest Hemingway) wrote: "[She] can write rings around all of us who consider ourselves as writers." Here are some examples:

"Everything those [textbook] authors said was sound and sane and reasonable, but they went on the theory that truth is rarer than radium and that if it became easily available, the market for it would be glutted, holders of stock in it would become destitute, and gems of eternal verity would be given away as premiums." (p. 190)

"[The two rivers] enclose the Ukamba like a frayed noose dropped to earth by an intrigued Satan, to mark a theatre for later labours." (p. 201)

"Nature ... developed [elephants'] bodies in one direction and their brains in another, while human beings, on the other hand, drew from Mr. Darwin's lottery of evolution both the winning ticket and the stub to match it." (p. 205)

"[A] man ... so angular as to give the impression of being constructed entirely of barrel staves." (p. 209)

Those writers of a few decades back weren't the only ones who could go three rounds mano a mano (or womano a womano) with a metaphor. Modern examples of extremism in metaphor, however, tend rather more toward the ridiculous than the sublime. The New Yorker used to run hilarious examples of unfortunate or overextended metaphors under the heading "Block that metaphor!" Here are a couple that perhaps ought to have been blocked:

"A shoemaker could imagine that he was sewing the leather of passion with the thread of freedom to produce shoes of enlightenment." (Quoted by Otavia Propper, from an unknown book.)

"The FAA is far from out of the woods, and the flip side of its shiny Krugerrand of reassurance is a dull and gritty kopeck of uncertainty and unanswered questions." (From a Time article about Y2K and the FAA, written by Nick Oredson.)



Metaphors carried to (and sometimes beyond) their logical conclusions can obviously be entertaining. They can be made even more entertaining by derailing them with what's commonly known as a mixed metaphor. In a letter to a friend, for instance, I once bemusedly watched myself write, "she steeled her threadbare nerves." Some mixed metaphors become standard parts of the common discourse; for instance, skipping lightly over the (air)waves of television channels became known as channel-surfing, so it was only logical that skipping lightly across the surface of the World Wide Web should be termed Websurfing, although the notion of surfing across something as sticky as a web would be a bit hard to swallow if anyone had stopped to think about it. It only gets worse when you consider the image of surfing along the "information superhighway"...

Five Reasons I Love Poetry

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

These famous words by John Donne (pronounced “Dunn”) were not originally written as a poem – the passage is taken from the 1624 Meditation 17, from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions and is prose. The final 3 lines are possibly amongst the most quoted excerpts of English verse.

Interesting fact: Donne was Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral (London)

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Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace was born a nobleman, being the firstborn son of a knight. On April 30, 1642, on behalf of Royalists in Kent, he presented to Parliament a petition asking them to restore the Anglican bishops to Parliament; as a result he was immediately imprisoned in Westminster Gatehouse where, whilst serving his time, wrote “To Althea, From Prison”, which contains – as per the excerpt given – one of the more famed lines of English verse “Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage”. Basically, Lovelace is saying that physical imprisonment/oppression cannot stifle his imagination or spirit.

Interesting fact: While in prison, Lovelace worked on a volume of poems, titled Lucasta, which was considered to be his best collection. The “Lucasta” to whom he dedicated much of his verse was Lucy Sacheverell, whom he often called Lux Casta. Unfortunately, she mistakenly believed that he died at the Battle of Dunkirk in 1646 and so married somebody else. Oops!

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The Curfew tolls the Knell of parting Day,
The lowing Herd winds slowly o’er the Lea,
The Plowman homeward plods his weary Way,
And leaves the World to Darkness, and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Thomas Gray’s Elegy (an elegy commemorates death) was written after the passing of one of Gray’s close friends, and is a meditation on the mortality of man. Gray was Professor of History and Modern Languages at Cambridge and, despite not being a prolific writer, was one of the most prominent poets of his day He was buried in Stoke Poges (near Windsor, England) the village whose churchyard was where he composed the Elegy.

Interesting fact: although he became a literary giant of his age, Gray only published 1,000 lines of poetry during his lifetime – this was due, largely, to his acute fear of failure.

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Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas, one of the 20th century’s more influential poets, wrote this to commemorate the death of his father. The poem (which in its entirety has 19 lines) has only 2 rhymes throughout.

Interesting facts: it is widely held that Robert Zimmerman adopted the name Bob Dylan as a homage to Dylan Thomas, who was somewhat of a Bohemian cult figure in the USA.

Widely believed to be an alcoholic (a rumor that Thomas himself “promoted”), there is much evidence to suggest that this was not the case (including the state of his autopsied liver).

#################################

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

from The Road Not Taken (1916)


I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Just a few lines from two of Robert Frost’s more famous works. Frost remains one of America’s pre-eminent poets, and there is often a genial simplicity in his words that continues to make his poetry accessible. Although a common theme in Frost is individuality or independence, I cannot help but think that he doesn’t follow through enough.

THAT'S where I get it from!

Awhile back, I began to wonder where I get this odd streak of thinking. How many other people save pre-paid reply envelopes, fill them with other offers received and send them back? Am I the only one? Some of the things I wonder about include - Is it possible to be totally partial? When sign makers go on strike, is anything written on their signs? Why don't sheep shrink when it rains?

Strange, I know. But I wonder, am I the only one to think of stuff like this?

Then it hit me...Perhaps these thoughts came during the 15 years we had our cat, Zero, in our lives. She certainly was a treasure. I would often have a post-nap thought - Someone has been doodling on my “Tabula rasa!"

I give her credit for inspiring many of my thoughts on life and the Importance of Words. Those times when Zero would curl up with me for a nap were often the times when my mind would wander through fruitful fields. I wondered why so many people seemed indifferent to words, books, thoughts and the like. It seemed I was watching someone being thrown a life preserver and they kept reaching for but never grasping it even though it was floating right in front of them. You've known people like that, haven't you? So, I thought I would share some favorite quotes in memory of the most wonderful kitty ever. It has been five years...


If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.
-- Katharine Hepburn

The secret of seeing is to sail on solar wind. Hone and spread your spirit, till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff.
-- Annie Dillard

People love pretty much the same things best. A writer looking for subject inquires not after what he loves best, but after what he alone loves at all.
-- Annie Dillard

People take different roads seeking fulfillment and happiness. Just because they're not on your road doesn't mean they've gotten lost.
-- Dalai Lama

You never find yourself until you face the truth.
-- Pearl Bailey

It could be that God has not absconded but spread, as our vision and understanding of the universe have spread, to a fabric of spirit and sense so grand and subtle, so powerful in a new way, that we can only feel blindly of its hem. In making the thick darkness a swaddling band for the sea, God "set bars and doors" and said, "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further." But have we even come that far? Have we rowed out to the thick darkness, or are we all playing pinochle in the bottom of the boat?
-- Annie Dillard

If you don't get lost, there's a chance you may never be found.
-- our old friend Anon

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
-- e.e. cummings

Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.
-- Albert Einstein

You can't hold a man down without staying down with him.
-- Booker T. Washington


Quotes from "A River Runs Through It" by Norman MacLean -

Long ago, when I was a young man, my father said to me, "Norman, you like to write stories." And I said "Yes, I do." Then he said, "Someday, when you're ready you might tell our family story. Only then will you understand what happened and why."



I remember distinctly after one of our afternoon naps, Zero looking my in the eyes as I took a thought from "A River Runs Through It" and carried it on a bit further -

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under those rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs and some are mine for the asking. I am haunted by these Living Waters. And I have no doubt that the river would lose its song if God removed the rocks. The Living Waters spring from God and He asks not only that you drink of them but that you step in and splash in them, soothe in them and follow them.



Ahh Zero! I still get carried by those many thoughts and I still visit new places. It is just lonelier there without you.

Things That Make Me [Sic] -1

The first installment of an occasional series from Gramma Dumpstercrumpet.

So many questions.............

Spelling class at 6:00?

Does God use spell-check in Heaven?

Was this error forgiven?

Announcing...

Starting this Sunday there will be a new, occasional series of posts appearing on these pages.

Written by my Gramma Dumpstercrumpet these posts will be pictures of signs that should have been corrected, news articles that should have been edited and assorted other grammar high crimes and misdemeanors.

Gramma always refers to items such as these as Things That Make Me [Sic]. I am confident you will see why.

Gramma was in cahoots (what a great word!) with our cat Zero quite often, although it is difficult to say who learned more from whom.

Just one quick example -


Mass. city misspells 'offcial' to catch bag cheats

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

GLOUCESTER, Mass. -- No, managers with Gloucester's Public Works Department aren't idiots. They're just trying to catch cheats. When the Massachusetts city unveiled its new $2 purple trash bags that all residents must use when disposing of household waste, the word 'official' was deliberately spelled 'offcial.'

Recycling coordinator Kathy Middleton tells The Gloucester Daily Times the intentional misspelling is supposed to make it easier to catch people who try to counterfeit bags. Middleton says counterfeiting has been a problem in the past.

John Craig, regional manager for WasteZero, (And, yes, I am offended by that name) the company that makes the bags, says he has never before had a community request a deliberate misspelling.

Middleton says the next batch of bags the city orders will be correct.

What seems more likely? That someone would go to the trouble of counterfeiting trash bags--but only one batch of them? Or that someone in a government office misspelled official? I'm going to go with the latter--though I admire the butt-covering efforts. We misspell so people don't counterfeit! Because everyone knows counterfeiters are well known for their love of grammar and dictionaries.

Who Would Have Ever Checked?

A lake with a 45-letter name has spelling errors!


Officials have agreed to correct spelling errors in road signs pointing to a central Massachusetts lake with a 45-letter name.

Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg in Webster has one of the world’s longest place names. It’s been spelled many different ways over the years. Some locals have given up and simply call it Lake Webster.

But after researching historical spelling combinations, the Telegram & Gazette of Worcester said local Chamber of Commerce officials agreed that some signs were wrong. There was an "o” at letter 20 where a "u” should have been, and an "h” at letter 38 where an "n” should go.

There are many stories and legends about the origin of the Indian name. One popular myth — later debunked — holds that the name translates roughly to ’You fish on your side, I fish on my side, and nobody fish in the middle.’

Someone deserves an extra cup of coffee for spell-checking!