Atonement: Similes 9 key examples

The similes also show how the soldiers, traumatized and worn out, no longer move or behave as they did in the past. Instead, it makes more sense to abstract them to inanimate objects and features of nature or compare them to animals, foreigners, or fictional characters.

Robbie's first impression, upon arriving at Bray Dunes, is the "ten, twenty thousand" soldiers "spread across the vastness of the beach." The narrator uses a simile to capture Robbie's perspective: "In the distance they were like grains of black sand." As he looks at the men who have dug themselves holes "from which they peeped out, proprietorial and smug," Robbie thinks to himself that they're "like marmots." The "majority of the army," however, are more "like citizens of an Italian town [...]."

Robbie and the corporals end up in a bar, where a group of soldiers gangs up violently on an RAF clerk. Again, McEwan uses similes to describe the soldiers' behavior and movements. The narrator compares the pilot to "a mole in bright light." And when Corporal Mace hatches a plan to save the man, he makes a roar "like the bellowing of a speared bull." He also yodels "like Johnny Weissmuller’s Tarzan." This is an allusion to the film adaptation of Tarzan, in which the Olympic swimmer Johnny Weissmuller played the titular hero. When the crowd of soldiers runs out of the bar, the crowd explodes through the doors "like champagne." As Robbie and Corporal Nettle move on from the experience at the bar, Robbie feels as though they are emerging from a dream.

Although Cecilia is not yet introduced by name, this instance of juxtaposition is the first time she's mentioned in the narrative. The imagery of the big sister's cluttered room, a metaphorical stew, is the complete opposite of Briony's metaphorical shrine. Nevertheless, the reader's first impression of the younger sister is not necessarily more favorable than that of the older, as the diction of "possessed" and "demon" make Briony's preference for order seem overzealous. In fact, the imagery of the miniature animals all lined up perfectly can almost feel disturbing. This uneasy impression extends to the description of Briony's dollhouse, where the dolls are positioned as though they were "a citizen’s army awaiting orders." The narrator goes on to connect Briony's love of order to a lack of secrets: "Her wish for a harmonious, organized world denied her the reckless possibilities of wrongdoing." This will become important, as Cecilia's more chaotic tendencies come to be associated with her rich and complicated inner life. It also foreshadows Briony's looming wrongdoing.

In the second chapter, the narrator focuses on Cecilia, confirming the impression the reader has already formed: "Cecilia knew she could not go on wasting her days in the stews of her untidied room, lying on her bed in a haze of smoke." It appears that Cecilia is fully aware of her mess but doesn't mind it. What bothers her is familiarity; she longs to escape the comfortable order of her home life. As she stands by the fountain, for example, the view down the drive gives "an impression of timeless, unchanging calm which made her more certain than ever that she must soon be moving on." And later in the first part, when she helps the twins get dressed for dinner, a vague resolution enters her thoughts: "she had to get away." In this chapter, order and familiarity take on a negative connotation. Cecilia feels confined and stifled by the harmony of the Tallis household.

Order and disorder continue to play a central role in the novel, especially in Robbie's experiences from the war and Briony's experiences at the hospital. Moreover, McEwan suggests that Briony's penchant for order is her reason for writing, as storytelling is a way for her to create order in a tumultuous world. In fact, the novel ends with an elderly Briony instilling order in her life, as she prepares for sickness, memory loss, death and the end of her story.

In the first part, the narrator regularly mentions the fountain in descriptions of the estate and characters' movements around it. As a result, the fountain witnesses both the everyday monotony of the Tallises' lives and the confused chaos that leads to the novel's climax. Initially, it symbolizes the family's aspiration for continuity and wholeness. In the third part, however, it becomes apparent that the fountain is easily broken—and moreover that its destruction doesn't matter much to anyone.

It is telling that the Tallis family chooses to have a replica of a 17th-century Roman statue in their yard. Depicting a Greek sea god frequently alluded to in both classical and modern literature, the fountain is a way for them to emphasize their worldliness and culture. However, the first detailed description of the fountain reveals that the sculpture of Triton, though muscular, emanates neither power nor culture.

The muscular figure, squatting so comfortably on his shell, could blow through his conch a jet only two inches high, the pressure was so feeble, and water fell back over his head, down his stone locks and along the groove of his powerful spine, leaving a glistening dark green stain.

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In this passage, McEwan's personification serves to mock Triton. Despite its classical allure, the fountain is relatively pathetic. The low water pressure prevents the fountain from doing its job, which makes Triton seem feeble. Rather than a rushing flow of water, the main effect of the fountain is a stain. However, despite failing to exude power, it is still a nice addition to the estate—the narrator writes that Triton and his dolphins are "beautiful in the morning sunlight."

The narrator suggests that Cecilia, who otherwise seems bothered by her familiar surroundings, likes the fountain:

As she stepped out into the brightness, the rising scent of warmed stone was like a friendly embrace. Two swallows were making passes over the fountain.

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The simile, comparing the smell of the fountain to a hug, indicates that the Tallises take pleasure in the fountain. Although it is somewhat dysfunctional, there is nevertheless something reliable to the fountain's continued presence—much like the Tallis family itself.

Many years later, however, it turns out that the fountain was not only fragile but also unimportant. In the third part, Emily tells Briony about the destruction of the fountain in a letter.

The oldest of the children, a thirteen-year-old boy who looked no bigger than eight, had got into the fountain, climbed onto the statue and snapped off the Triton’s horn and his arm, right down to the elbow.

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During the war, the Tallises host a number of evacuees from London in their home. As Emily explains in her letter, one of the children of the evacuated mothers breaks off Triton's arm. Although Jack believes that the fountain can be fixed, the part goes missing. Nothing more comes of the situation.

In the same letter, Emily reveals that Betty accidentally shattered Uncle Clem's Vase. The destruction of the fountain and the vase, both symbols of the Tallis family, reveal the emptiness of the family's apparent wholeness and continuity. Within a few short years, after the children have grown up, the members of the family are splintered and estranged in various ways. Alongside this, things that mattered a lot to them collectively come to lose their significance.

The metaphor in this passage shows that Emily is accustomed to her migraines. At first, the presence of the sleeping animal almost seems comforting. As the narrator develops the metaphor further, however, it becomes clear that Emily lives at its mercy. Although the animal "[bears] her no malice" and is "indifferent to her misery," it still holds total control over her. As Emily feels it "begin to stir," she reorients her thoughts to appease it.

Over the course of the chapter, the reader learns more about this "animal," as the narrator elaborates on its appearance and effect. For example, a simile brings the reader from imagining it as a general animalistic being to a specific kind of animal: "It would move as a caged panther might: because it was awake, out of boredom, for the sake of movement itself, or for no reason at all, and with no awareness." The narrator consolidates the panther comparison, referring to it as a "black-furred creature."

The narrator makes it clear that Emily's migraine is subsiding by saying that "the presence of her animal tormentor" is "beginning to fade." It is worth noting the possessive pronoun here. The "her" suggests that Emily identifies with her migraines. Because of how substantially the migraine controls her life, she claims it as her own. Emily absorbs the metaphorical animal and the pain it stands for such that it informs her self-perception.

Finally, as the chapter ends, Emily becomes able to rearrange her pillows and sit up in bed. The narrator's final contribution to the extended metaphor is to say that Emily's creature has "slunk away," leading the reader to understand that it will come back later.

By giving certainty and uncertainty visual and tactile qualities, McEwan plays with Briony's conviction that there is a greater truth to find beyond the visible. Throughout her testimony, she feels frustrated over everyone's emphasis on what she saw: "Less like seeing, more like knowing."

Soon after, in a simile, McEwan compares Briony to a bride-to-be with second thoughts:

She was like a bride-to-be who begins to feel her sickening qualms as the day approaches, and dares not speak her mind because so many preparations have been made on her behalf. The happiness and convenience of so many good people would be put at risk. [...] Briony did not wish to cancel the whole arrangement.

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There is a certain amount of irony in this simile, as there is little "happiness and convenience" to be found in the situation Briony has created. For most everyone besides Paul, she has caused unhappiness and inconvenience. However, the simile captures the feeling of being a child whose invention or small lie brings major consequences. Like a metaphorical bride who would rather protect other people's feelings than express her true emotions, Briony prefers to stick to the mess she has made than to create another mess.

McEwan metaphorically compares this mess to a "labyrinth of her own construction," which Briony has trapped herself in. She is "too young, too awestruck, too keen to please" to try to make her way out of it. Returning briefly to the wedding metaphor, McEwan describes an "imposing congregation" which "massed itself around her first certainties." The congregation is standing there waiting, and she feels unwilling to "disappoint it at the altar."

The first paragraph of the 14th chapter offers yet another metaphor to describe the guilt and confusion of being wrong:

How guilt refined the methods of self-torture, threading the beads of detail into an eternal loop, a rosary to be fingered for a lifetime.

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Drawing on Roman Catholicism, which is concerned with guilt and repentance, McEwan presents the details that make up Briony's memories as rosary beads. Because these metaphorical beads are arranged on a circular string, Briony is doomed to run through the details of her memories forever.

By giving certainty and uncertainty visual and tactile qualities, McEwan plays with Briony's conviction that there is a greater truth to find beyond the visible. Throughout her testimony, she feels frustrated over everyone's emphasis on what she saw: "Less like seeing, more like knowing."

Soon after, in a simile, McEwan compares Briony to a bride-to-be with second thoughts:

She was like a bride-to-be who begins to feel her sickening qualms as the day approaches, and dares not speak her mind because so many preparations have been made on her behalf. The happiness and convenience of so many good people would be put at risk. [...] Briony did not wish to cancel the whole arrangement.

Cite this Quote

There is a certain amount of irony in this simile, as there is little "happiness and convenience" to be found in the situation Briony has created. For most everyone besides Paul, she has caused unhappiness and inconvenience. However, the simile captures the feeling of being a child whose invention or small lie brings major consequences. Like a metaphorical bride who would rather protect other people's feelings than express her true emotions, Briony prefers to stick to the mess she has made than to create another mess.

McEwan metaphorically compares this mess to a "labyrinth of her own construction," which Briony has trapped herself in. She is "too young, too awestruck, too keen to please" to try to make her way out of it. Returning briefly to the wedding metaphor, McEwan describes an "imposing congregation" which "massed itself around her first certainties." The congregation is standing there waiting, and she feels unwilling to "disappoint it at the altar."

The first paragraph of the 14th chapter offers yet another metaphor to describe the guilt and confusion of being wrong:

How guilt refined the methods of self-torture, threading the beads of detail into an eternal loop, a rosary to be fingered for a lifetime.

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Drawing on Roman Catholicism, which is concerned with guilt and repentance, McEwan presents the details that make up Briony's memories as rosary beads. Because these metaphorical beads are arranged on a circular string, Briony is doomed to run through the details of her memories forever.

Throughout the second part, the mere thought of Cecilia and her repeated promise of "I'll wait for you" replenishes Robbie's will to survive. As he lies in the cellar at Bray Dunes, nearly debilitated by exhaustion, Robbie feels unable to call upon the power that her letters once imparted on him:

Through the material of his coat he felt for the bundle of her letters. I’ll wait for you. Come back. The words were not meaningless, but they didn’t touch him now. It was clear enough—one person waiting for another was like an arithmetical sum, and just as empty of emotion.

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The simile, which compares waiting to "an arithmetical sum," captures Robbie's despair. His once hopeful outlook has been replaced by a jaded one. Cecilia's promise is no longer the ultimate romantic gesture, capable of filling him with renewed strength. Instead, it is as cold and formulaic as a math problem.

The narrator shares the continuation of Robbie's cynical inner monologue:

Waiting. Simply one person doing nothing, over time, while another approached. Waiting was a heavy word. He felt it pressing down, heavy as a greatcoat. Everyone in the cellar was waiting, everyone on the beach. She was waiting, yes, but then what?

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In these sentences, the word "waiting" is repeated a number of times. Through this repetition, McEwan empties the word of some of its meaning to show how Robbie has lost faith in it. Robbie's reductive definition of the word shows how he has abstracted the idea in his mind.

McEwan also imbues waiting with a tangible quality, using a simile to compare it to the greatcoat that he and the corporals have been lugging around the whole day. However, the greatcoats and waiting are similar in another, more positive way. Earlier in the second part, the forward-looking Robbie forces the corporals to keep their greatcoats despite the heat of the day so that they will be prepared for the cold night. The heavy greatcoats may seem meaningless as they walk, but Robbie knows that they are central to survival. Similarly, even if Robbie briefly loses his faith in the power waiting, he knows deep down that it has kept—and will keep—him alive.

Within a few pages, Robbie is able to return to his former view of waiting. As he calms down, he "of course" sees "how fine it really was that she was waiting":

Arithmetic be damned. I’ll wait for you was elemental. It was the reason he had survived.

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Rejecting his former reduction of waiting to arithmetic, Robbie once again recognizes the power of Cecilia's promise. As the second part comes to a close, Robbie falls asleep and recalls the first time she told him she would wait for him.

Even if the war has not yet arrived at the hospital at the start of the third part, the nurse trainees nevertheless wage a metaphorical war:

Between tasks, perhaps a dozen times a day, the students scrubbed their cracked and bleeding chilblained hands under freezing water. The war against germs never ceased. The probationers were initiated into the cult of hygiene.

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The blood on the nurses' hands establishes a parallel between them and the soldiers. It is almost as though, in order to prepare for the eventual arrival of the traumatized and injured soldiers, the nurses have to go through a certain amount of pain themselves. As the sisters instill the hospital's standards in the trainees, they train them to see the pursuit of hygiene as a war.

Other elements of the trainees' experience mirrors that of the soldiers in France. For example, at the end of every day, tiredness comes over the nurses, "heavy as three folded blankets." This simile brings to mind the extreme exhaustion of Robbie and the soldiers at the end of the second part. Moreover, the heavy blankets in the simile are reminiscent of the soldiers' great coats.

In the first part, the narrator regularly mentions the fountain in descriptions of the estate and characters' movements around it. As a result, the fountain witnesses both the everyday monotony of the Tallises' lives and the confused chaos that leads to the novel's climax. Initially, it symbolizes the family's aspiration for continuity and wholeness. In the third part, however, it becomes apparent that the fountain is easily broken—and moreover that its destruction doesn't matter much to anyone.

It is telling that the Tallis family chooses to have a replica of a 17th-century Roman statue in their yard. Depicting a Greek sea god frequently alluded to in both classical and modern literature, the fountain is a way for them to emphasize their worldliness and culture. However, the first detailed description of the fountain reveals that the sculpture of Triton, though muscular, emanates neither power nor culture.

The muscular figure, squatting so comfortably on his shell, could blow through his conch a jet only two inches high, the pressure was so feeble, and water fell back over his head, down his stone locks and along the groove of his powerful spine, leaving a glistening dark green stain.

Cite this Quote

In this passage, McEwan's personification serves to mock Triton. Despite its classical allure, the fountain is relatively pathetic. The low water pressure prevents the fountain from doing its job, which makes Triton seem feeble. Rather than a rushing flow of water, the main effect of the fountain is a stain. However, despite failing to exude power, it is still a nice addition to the estate—the narrator writes that Triton and his dolphins are "beautiful in the morning sunlight."

The narrator suggests that Cecilia, who otherwise seems bothered by her familiar surroundings, likes the fountain:

As she stepped out into the brightness, the rising scent of warmed stone was like a friendly embrace. Two swallows were making passes over the fountain.

Cite this Quote

The simile, comparing the smell of the fountain to a hug, indicates that the Tallises take pleasure in the fountain. Although it is somewhat dysfunctional, there is nevertheless something reliable to the fountain's continued presence—much like the Tallis family itself.

Many years later, however, it turns out that the fountain was not only fragile but also unimportant. In the third part, Emily tells Briony about the destruction of the fountain in a letter.

The oldest of the children, a thirteen-year-old boy who looked no bigger than eight, had got into the fountain, climbed onto the statue and snapped off the Triton’s horn and his arm, right down to the elbow.

Cite this Quote

During the war, the Tallises host a number of evacuees from London in their home. As Emily explains in her letter, one of the children of the evacuated mothers breaks off Triton's arm. Although Jack believes that the fountain can be fixed, the part goes missing. Nothing more comes of the situation.

In the same letter, Emily reveals that Betty accidentally shattered Uncle Clem's Vase. The destruction of the fountain and the vase, both symbols of the Tallis family, reveal the emptiness of the family's apparent wholeness and continuity. Within a few short years, after the children have grown up, the members of the family are splintered and estranged in various ways. Alongside this, things that mattered a lot to them collectively come to lose their significance.

Already as a 13-year-old, Briony is greatly preoccupied with literary conventions. In the first part, the narrator describes her dissatisfaction with the first story she ever wrote, at age 11. Briony is eager to grow up, which, for her, involves figuring out how to write a true story informed by a "vital knowingness about the ways of the world."

Briony's contempt for her first story in the first part comes to mind when the narrator describes her contempt for 19th-century literature in the third part. Thinking about the story she submitted to the literary magazine Horizon, Briony feels excited about its design: "the pure geometry and the defining uncertainty which reflected, she thought, a modern sensibility." Just like in the first part, Briony believes that she has rooted out the naïveté of a past writing style: "The age of clear answers was over. So was the age of characters and plots." Referring to characters and plots as "quaint devices," "errors that modern psychology had exposed," and "rusted machinery," Briony believes she has figured out how to write "the novel of the future." After many years, the same outlook steers how Briony approaches writing. In her view, writing well comes down to rooting out traditional conventions and uncovering the true, modern conventions that will prove a worldly awareness.

McEwan uses a river simile to capture Briony's view of how a modernist writer conceives of the mind:

It was thought, perception, sensations that interested her, the conscious mind as a river through time, and how to represent its onward roll, as well as all the tributaries that would swell it, and the obstacles that would divert it. 

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Briony has replaced her interest in devices like plot and character with this view of subjectivity. On the one hand, the passage presents an apt (not to mention poetic) description of stream-of-consciousness narration, which is associated with modernism. On the other hand, the reader gets the impression that Briony is oversimplifying the modernist form to a certain degree. She believes that a successful novel merely requires the writer to "enter a mind and show it at work, or being worked on." 

A few sentences later, McEwan presents the reader with an allusion:

She had read Virginia Woolf’s The Waves three times and thought that a great transformation was being worked in human nature itself, and that only fiction, a new kind of fiction, could capture the essence of the change.

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It becomes evident that Briony—in her story, style, and view of literature—is merely modeling herself off of the notable modernist writer Virginia Woolf. Briony believes that reading The Waves three times has given her the authority and tools to expose the pretenses of the past and debunk its expired methods. The reader nevertheless gets the sense that this has a more strained effect than she realizes at the time. Rather than giving an impression of her authentic subjectivity, it comes off as pretense. This is confirmed by the rejection letter she receives from Horizon, in which the editor suggests that her story "owed a little too much to the techniques of Mrs. Woolf."

In this description, McEwan uses a simile to compare the pouches of blood and plasma to exotic fruits. The medical images and jungle images come together in a stomach-turning clash, as the reader would prefer not to visualize the blood and plasma as food.

A similar mixture of registers continues in subsequent passages. In fact, this is not the only place where elements of the body are compared to fruit. In one instance, the narrator compares a stitched wound to bunches of red grapes:

The wound was eighteen inches long, perhaps more, and curved behind his knee. The stitches were clumsy and irregular. Here and there one edge of the ruptured skin rose over the other, revealing its fatty layers, and little obtrusions like miniature bunches of red grapes forced up from the fissure.

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The narrator also compares the patient's same leg, which is "black and soft," to an overripe banana. Through these similes, the reader gets a sense of how nurses like Briony remain calm and composed. While there is certainly something off-putting to the similes, it also gives insight into how the nurses engage with the injuries in front of them through a filter of abstraction. By recognizing the bodily fluids, wounds, and body parts as something else—such as fruit—they prevent themselves from dwelling on what is actually in front of them, which helps them do their job with the efficiency that is required of them.