Feeling incredibly awkward and out of place, Rufus leaves Jane and Vivaldo sitting at a table at the bar to go to the bathroom. The narrator describes how the act of urinating makes Rufus feel unpleasantly connected to all the garbage in the world, using hyperbole and a metaphor:
It smelled of thousands of travelers, oceans of [pee], tons of bile and vomit and [excrement]. He added his stream to the ocean, holding that most despised part of himself loosely between two fingers of one hand.
The bathroom of this bar is, to Rufus, the most unpleasant place he could ever imagine. The hyperbole in this passage is clear; the bathroom might be revolting, but it doesn’t actually contain the “tons of bile and vomit” from “thousands of travelers.” Rufus feels this way because he’s miserably unhappy and is under the impression that there’s no way out of being overwhelmed by his life in New York. He is ashamed of having animal requirements and urges and that he has to “add his own stream” to the stinking ocean of refuse the city produces. He’s begun to hate himself totally, and he expresses that hatred toward his own penis here, the “most hated part of himself.”
As Cass and Vivaldo silently ride an elevator on their way to Rufus’s funeral, the author uses hyperbole to show Vivaldo’s dire state:
She was struck by his panic and sorrow; without a word, she put on her dark coat and put her hand in his; and they rode down in the elevator in silence. She watched him in the elevator mirror. Sorrow became him. He was reduced to his beauty and elegance—as bones, after a long illness, come forward through the flesh.
Vivaldo is absolutely emotionally destroyed by Rufus’s death, and Baldwin hammers this home by describing Rufus's body as dying in sympathy. The simile in this passage—where bones poke through flesh when a corpse decomposes—is intended to show the depth of Vivaldo’s sorrow. Cass observes that Vivaldo's pain has literally stripped the flesh from his body, leaving nothing but his raw, exposed self. His usual composure has vanished and he's visibly diminished by the weight of his loss. The change is not entirely a bad one, however: Cass also muses that “sorrow became him.” This phrase has a double meaning. He has both “become sorrow” entirely, as it has totally consumed him, and he has had his physical appearance improved by sorrow. His “reduction” has exposed the bones in his face in a way that makes them look elegant and beautiful.
As Eric and Yves fall deeper in love, Baldwin uses hyperbole and a simile to express the barrage of feelings Eric experiences. Lying in bed with Yves, Eric thinks:
Then, in the violent moonlight, naked, he slowly pulled the covers away from Yves. They watched each other and he stared at Yves’ body for a long time before Yves lifted up his arms, with that same sad, cryptic smile, and kissed him. Eric felt beneath his fingers Yves’ slowly stirring, stiffening sex. This sex dominated the long landscape of his life as the cathedral towers dominated the plains.
In this passage, Eric and Yves have just gotten into bed together, and Eric is trying to make sense of the rush of feelings he's experiencing. The moonlight, which streams in through the window and illuminates every centimeter of the scene, is so bright that it seems "violent," almost as though it had a malicious will of its own. Because Eric is nervous about what's about to happen, the lack of darkness to hide in feels aggressive and exciting. He only has his brief and little-discussed encounter with LeRoy to compare this moment with Yves to.
When he reaches down and feels Yves's penis, the narrator describes it as "dominating" the "landscape" of his life, in the same way that the cathedral towers of the town they are staying in "dominate" the flat plains around them. With Yves, Eric feels something he has never felt before. The hyperbole in this simile emphasizes this, as Yves's presence—and the sexual chemistry between them—seem bigger and more important than anything else Eric has experienced. Of course, Yves's erection is not really the size of a cathedral, but to Eric it feels almost as sacred and important.
Ida loses her composure while speaking to Cass about how prejudiced White people are, exposing her frustration with a system she believes has deceived and confined Black people for too long. She uses hyperbole and a metaphor to drive her point home:
They keep you here because you’re black [...] while they go around jerking themselves off with all that jazz about the land of the free and the home of the brave. And they want you to jerk yourself off with that same music, too, only, keep your distance. Some days, honey, I wish I could turn myself into one big fist and grind this miserable country to powder. Some days, I don’t believe it has a right to exist.
Ida metaphorically turns all White people in America into a monolith here, telling Cass that they “keep” her in Black neighborhoods to control and subjugate her. The hyperbole she uses compares White America's self-satisfied, ignorant ideas about “freedom” to masturbation. In Ida’s mind, White people self-congratulate themselves about “freedom” while still subjugating their Black neighbors. What’s worse is that they expect Black people to do the same, but simultaneously want them to stay far away from White spaces. Whiteness, as she perceives it, exploits Black creativity and innovation while refusing any actual inclusion. This makes her so furious that she employs another hyperbolic metaphor, saying she wishes she could “grind this miserable country to powder” by turning into a “big fist.” Of course, this isn’t actually possible, but Ida is so angry that all she wants to do is destroy the systems that limit and hurt her.