Figurative language—metaphor, simile, personification, hyperbole, and others—creates compressed, abstract, or surprising ways of expressing ideas. Rather than simply naming the device, analysis explains how the figurative language works: what comparison does it create, what perspective does it offer, what does it reveal about the subject being described? Figurative language makes the abstract concrete and the familiar strange.
You already know how to identify figures of speech — the simile, the metaphor, the personification. The move from identification to analysis is the move from *what is this?* to *what does this do?* A metaphor names something as something else; the interesting question is why that particular equation was chosen and what it reveals. When Sylvia Plath writes "Dying / Is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well," she is not just comparing dying to artistry — she is claiming skill and agency over something usually described as passive suffering, and doing it with dark wit. The device (metaphor) matters less than the specific conceptual work the metaphor performs.
Figurative language creates meaning by exploiting a gap between the literal and the figurative. The gap itself carries information. When Emily Dickinson calls hope "the thing with feathers," the comparison activates everything we know about birds — lightness, song, fragility, flight — and projects those qualities onto hope. We understand hope differently after this metaphor than before, not because we've been given new facts but because we've been given a new way of perceiving something we already knew. This is what your prerequisite study of compositional semantics points toward: meaning isn't just the sum of words; it's the interaction between them and the frame of interpretation the writer establishes.
The craft of analysis lies in being specific about which properties of the vehicle (the thing being compared to) are being transferred to the tenor (the subject). Not all properties transfer — when we say "time is money," we don't mean time is rectangular or metallic. We mean it's scarce, exchangeable, and something you can waste or invest. Identifying exactly which properties are being projected, and why the writer chose this vehicle rather than another, is the central analytical move. "The fog comes on little cat feet" (Sandburg) transfers silence, smallness, and self-possessed indifference from cats to fog — not sharpness, not warmth. The precision of the selection is the artistry.
Figurative language also does ideological and emotional work that pure description cannot. Personification of nature implies a relationship between humans and the natural world. Metaphors of battle applied to illness ("fighting cancer," "losing the war") shape how patients and doctors think about treatment and blame. The metaphors a text uses — even casually — reveal assumptions. When a poem about grief uses imagery of winter and barrenness, it aligns emotional loss with natural cycles of death, implying eventual return. When it uses imagery of amputation or permanent wound, it insists on irreversibility. Analyzing figurative language means asking what worldview the chosen images encode.
The synthesis skill that makes you a strong reader is moving between close attention to individual figures and the cumulative pattern they form across a text. A single metaphor is a moment; a network of related metaphors is an argument. When Shakespeare's Macbeth accumulates images of borrowed garments, clothing that doesn't fit, throughout the play, these isolated figures cohere into a sustained meditation on illegitimate kingship — power that was never rightfully his and therefore sits uneasily. Looking for extended metaphors and image clusters is how you move from micro-analysis of individual lines to macro-interpretation of a work's meaning.
Topics in reflective domains aren't scored by quiz answers. Read, reflect, and mark when you've thought it through.