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Clich é. Clich é. an expression that has lost its power through overexposure, that has become dull from overuse. See also: trite, hackneyed. In printing, a cliché was a printing plate cast from movable type.
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Cliché an expression that has lost its power through overexposure, that has become dull from overuse. See also: trite, hackneyed.
In printing, a cliché was a printing plate cast from movable type. This is also called a stereotype. When letters were set one at a time, it made sense to cast a phrase used repeatedly as a single slug of metal. ‘Cliché’ came to mean a ready-made phrase. Cliché
All writing is a campaign against cliché. Not just clichés of the pen but clichés of the mind and heart. The qualities of freshness, energy and reverberation are opposed to cliché.
The greatest disrespect we can show for reality whenattempting to describe it is to do so with words that are not our own and never were, by which we mean words that have already appeared on millions of pages and in millions of mouths before our turn to use them finally comes. Jose Saramago, The Elephant’s Journey
The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. The technique of art is to make objects ‘unfamiliar’… VicktorShklovsky, “Art as Device”
The purpose of art is to impart the sensation of things as they are perceived and not as they are known. The technique of art is to make objects ‘unfamiliar’…
i.e. One of our most important tasks as writers is to find the right details, details that make our characters and setting vivid.
There are three kinds of details: golden, useful, and cliché.
Cliché details have already appeared on millions of pages and in millions of mouths: His blood boiled. She looked like she had seen a ghost. It was the calm before the storm. We were falling in love.
Useful details are plain but needed: His hair was orange. Her face was long and oval. She stood just over six feet tall. He carried a black backpack.
Golden details are original and unforgettable: The December yard is gray and scratchy, the trees calligraphic. We sat as if the wind had knocked us all down. As the sun set, the ocean exploded pink.
I have no reason not to answer the door so I answer the door. I have no tiny round window to inspect visitors so I open the door and before me is a tall, sturdily built African-American woman, a few years older than me, wearing a red nylon sweatsuit. She speaks to me loudly. “You have a phone, sir?” She looks familiar. I am almost certain that I saw her in the parking lot an hour ago, when I returned from the convenience store. I saw her standing by the stairs, and I smiled at her. I tell her that I do have a phone. “My car broke down on the street,” she says. Behind her, it is nearly night. I have been studying most of the afternoon. “Can you let me use your phone to call the police?” she asks. I do not know why she wants to call the police for a car in need of repair, but I consent. She steps inside. I begin to close the door but she holds it open. “I’ll just be a second,” she says. It does not make sense to me to leave the door open but I do so because she desires it. This is her country and not yet mine. “Where’s the phone?” she asks. I tell her my cell phone is in my bedroom. Before I finish the sentence, she has rushed past me and down the hall, a hulk of swishing nylon. The door to my room closes, then clicks. She has locked herself in my bedroom. I start to follow her when I hear a voice behind me. -- from What is the What by Dave Eggers
The feeling of travelling at 100 kilometers an hour. It’s like being dropped down a well.
The feeling of travelling at 100 kilometers an hour. It’s like being dropped down a well. As the speed grew, I heard death’s whisper grow louder and louder.
Taking a sip of a drink that’s too hot. It’s like being bit on the lip.
The sound of an airplane passing overhead. The steel dragon declared its reign over the continent. The giant metal bird slid across the sky and roared.
How a papercut feels. Usually I leave my mark on the paper. This time it left its mark on me. I would rather have broken my arm.
The smell of an old library book. The book smelled of mummified plant fibers and of hands, skin, oils, and dirt. The smell was so alien yet so familiar. The book smelled like my grandmother, old, brittle, and wrinkly. The smell of dust and knowledge.
The sound of a subway stopping. The subway put up a fight against the conductor. The subway screamed in protest against stopping.
The feeling of riding one’s bike down a steep hill. It’s like riding a rollercoaster without a seatbelt. It’s the perfect balance between control and chaos. It feels like freedom. Gravity is awesome.
The feeling of walking up an escalator that’s not moving. With each step, she felt more disdain for the neighbouring, fully functional escalator moving its passengers downwards.
The feeling of skating on ice that’s just been zambonied. It’s like running your hands along your freshly-shaved legs. The skater finally escaped the law of friction that had kept her from arriving on time to classes, meetings, parties, and dates.
The smell of a basement. It’s an unnamable, unknowable scent that forces me to live with uncertainty and somehow makes me feel at home.
The smell of a grandparent. She smells like Europe. She smells like she’s bathed in oatmeal.
The feeling of walking on hot sand. It’s a burning you enjoy. The tiny specks of stone; a gentle yet burning caress. The sand contours and cushions your feet as if you were walking on a giant soufflé.
The moment you drop something you know will break. My heart drops with the falling glass. It’s the feeling you get when someone says “We need to talk.” Your eyes follow the object, gazing almost longingly, hoping for a miracle, screaming for your body to reach, to catch.
The feeling of wearing a shirt that’s too small. You want to rip it off, but if you do, your skin will be ripped off with it.
The sound of music through a broken speaker. Everything is distant and wounded.
The taste of a perfect apple. It tastes of warm autumn air and sugar.
The feeling of being at school after staying up all night. It’s like being underwater, everything out of focus. You stare at others with coal eyes and wonder if they know you’re tired.
A noisy classroom as heard from the hallway. It sounded like an asylum behind the closed doors. It’s like the zoo went on a field trip to that particular classroom.
