Ordinary language is all right.
One could divide humanity into two classes:
those who master a metaphor, and those who hold by a formula.
Those with a bent for both are too few, they do not comprise a class.
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Last night I sat in front of a loud racist who was drunk and overwhelmed by the unfamiliar experience of riding the bus.
'This is the species of the sublime for which the sight of the boundless prairies of the interior of North America is renowned.'
Today the bus passed an apartment building, from a third story window of which a woman was waving while holding a big black cat. I feel confident that she was saying 'bye bye, bus!' to the cat.
'He who hears blasphemy nowadays is not obliged to rend his garments, because otherwise his garments would be nothing but tatters.'
'She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.'
Tuesday morning, the bus driver turned on Front and Chatsworth, drove a few blocks further, and then turned around, saying, 'this is the way we used to go—auto-pilot!'.
"A sick philosopher is incurable."
"Because he has no confidence."
'Henry's mind grew blacker the more he thought.'
My dime got stuck in the pop machine. I banged on the coin slot to no avail; then I blew into the slot, and the dime dropped into the machine.