An iron lung looks like an enormous metal coffin or a 19th-century rocket ship: only its occupant's head is left outside, a tight seal around the neck.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
It gives a fellow an awful shiver to hear the first shovelful of dirt and gravel rattle down upon the coffin; but after it is covered, it falls gently and makes no sound. The feeling of rest is perfect. There's no more nagging, no more pain!
In America, burial means an embalmed body in a heavy-duty casket with a vault built over it, so that the ground doesn't settle. That body is encased in many layers of denial.
That's a very scary thing to think about, being trapped in a coffin.
I must have something to engross my thoughts, some object in life which will fill this vacuum, and prevent this sad wearing away of the heart.
We too could wrest iron from the bowels of the earth and fashion it into ships and machines.
You are a little soul carrying around a corpse.
The three-pound organ in your skull - with its pink consistency of Jell-o - is an alien kind of computational material. It is composed of miniaturized, self-configuring parts, and it vastly outstrips anything we've dreamt of building.
A big iron needle stitching the country together.
In the human lung, there are millions of air foils, just like aeroplane wings, which facilitate normal breathing.
The tombstone is about the only thing that can stand upright and lie on its face at the same time.