I’m listening to Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, and I’m struck by this guy’s way with a metaphor. Two examples:
A narrow pile of dirty white brick and slit windows, three or four bloks off the tawdriest stretch of Monsatir Street, the place has all the allure of a dehumidifier.
His face is mostly jowl and his ridged forehead looks like one of those domed beehives you see representing industry in medieval woodcuts.
I heard the first one just as I returned from the store to exchange a humidifier, so it really hit home. I have no idea what he’s talking about in the second one, but somehow it rings clever.