Metaphor

Saying one thing by means of another, without a word of comparison: instead of saying that something is like another thing, one says that it is. The image transfers to the subject the qualities of the thing it has been identified with.

In The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas

I am not, properly speaking, a dead author, but an authoring corpse, for whom the grave was another cradle

"The grave was another cradle" identifies the tomb with the cradle: the place where life ends becomes the place where the account begins, and death turns into a birth for writing.

Chapters I to IX: Death, plaster, and delirium, the narrator

Prudêncio, a houseboy, was my daily horse

Chapters X to XVI: Childhood and Marcela, the narrator

realism came upon him, eaten by mange and worms, and out of compassion carried him off into its books

Chapters X to XVI: Childhood and Marcela, the narrator

No; it is a thinking errata, that is what it is. Each stage of life is an edition that corrects the previous one, and will be corrected too, until the definitive edition, which the publisher gives free to the worms.

Chapters XXV to XXXVII: Tijuca, The Black Butterfly, and Eugênia, the narrator

Virgília compared the eagle and the peacock, and chose the eagle, leaving the peacock with his astonishment, his spite, and the three or four kisses he had given her

Chapters XXXVIII to XLIX: Virgília Lost, the Death of His Father, and the Inheritance, the narrator

the way to compensate for a closed window is to open another, so that morality may continually air out the conscience

Chapters L to LXIII: Virgília Married and the "Let's Flee!", the narrator

Virgília was the pillow of my spirit

Chapters L to LXIII: Virgília Married and the "Let's Flee!", the narrator

from which one might deduce that vice is often the manure of virtue

Chapters LXIV to LXXVI: The Little House, The Whip, and Dona Plácida, the narrator

That was, I think, the high point of our love, the peak of the mountain, from which for some time we looked out [...] and above us the calm, blue sky. Once we had rested a while, we began to descend the slope, hands clasped or loose, but descending, descending...

Chapters LXXVII to LXXXVII: The Presidency and the Peak of the Mountain, the narrator

there was in Lobo Neves a certain fundamental dignity, a layer of rock, that resisted the commerce of men. The others, the upper layers of loose earth and sand, life washed away, for life is a perpetual torrent

Chapters LXXVII to LXXXVII: The Presidency and the Peak of the Mountain, the narrator

opinion is a good weld for domestic institutions

Chapters CI to CXVI: The Wall, the Weld, and the Old Leaves, the narrator

I had no children; I passed on to no creature the legacy of our misery

Chapters CXXXVII to CLX: The Cap, the Ministry, and the Denials, the narrator