Frank J. Wilstach, comp. A Dictionary of Similes. 1916.

Irvin S. Cobb

Black as a cave mouth.

Boring in and out … like a stubby needle going through a tuck.

Casually, like John Drew counting up the house.

Comfortable as an anvil.

Curled up like a blue racer in a partridge nest.

Determined aspect like the iron jawed lady in a circus.

Dimpling like a maiden’s cheek.

A little rounded excrescence like a steel wart.

His face looked like a face that had refused to jell and was about to run down on his clothes.

Nature meant that a fat man should have an appetite and that he should gratify it at regular intervals—meant that he should feel like the Grand Canyon before dinner and the Royal Gorge afterward.

Festered like buried thorns in the flesh.

Flat as a fillet of sole.

Fleshless as a joint of cane.

Folds up like a crush hat or a concertina.

Misty gray, like a cow’s breath on a frosty morning.

Hysterical as a tree full of chickens.

Intermittently, like the click of a blind man’s cane.

Jingle … like rattling handcuffs.

Mixed together like jackstraws.

Make noises like a drunken Zulu trying to sing a Swedish folk song.

As nude as a raw oyster.

Overflowing like a crock of salt-rising dough in a warm kitchen.

No more privacy than a goldfish.

Reverential, as though he were handling sacred vessels.

Sags like a fisherman’s hat.

Scuttle off … like a brace of teal ducks getting out of a walrus’ way.

Her jaw was set like a steel latch.

Door slam like the smacking of an iron lip.

Looked at it and sniffed at it daintily—like a reluctant patient going under the ether.

Sore as a mashed thumb.

Spattering off in a steady stream, like a buck-shot spilling from a canister.

Splotched like a brandy drunkard’s face with red stains.

Spouting like a sperm-whale.

Braced and steady, like a game man facing a firing squad.

Teeth chattering like a Morse sounder.

Left a taste in his mouth like a tin-type factory.

Dressed in white—all white, like a bride or a bandaged thumb.

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