What is another word for was plain?

Pronunciation: [wɒz plˈe͡ɪn] (IPA)

There are quite a few synonyms for the phrase "was plain." This phrase is typically used to describe something that is simple or unembellished. Some possible synonyms for "was plain" include "was unadorned," "was straightforward," "was unpretentious," "was ordinary," "was basic," "was unornamented," "was uncomplicated," and "was unassuming." All of these phrases can be used to convey a sense of simplicity or lack of decoration. Depending on the context, any of these synonyms might be a suitable alternative to "was plain," allowing the writer or speaker to convey their intended meaning with precision and clarity.

What are the hypernyms for Was plain?

A hypernym is a word with a broad meaning that encompasses more specific words called hyponyms.

What are the opposite words for was plain?

The term "was plain" refers to something that is simple, unadorned or lacking in embellishment. Opposites of this phrase include "was ornate," which refers to something that is elaborately decorated or adorned with intricate details. "Was complex" is another antonym, which suggests that something is composed of various intricate pieces or aspects. "Was flashy" represents an opposite quality to plain, in that it is showy, ostentatious or extravagant. "Was colorful" is also a possible antonym, as it suggests that something is vivid, bright or rich with hues. Ultimately, the antonyms of "was plain" offer a range of possibilities to describe a variety of aesthetic qualities.

What are the antonyms for Was plain?

Famous quotes with Was plain

  • I spent the first fourteen years of my life convinced that my looks were hideous. Adolescence is painful for everyone, I know, but mine was plain weird.
    Uma Thurman
  • Her style was plain and poetic as rain on a daisy--she was particularly gifted at the description of empty land and horses. She lived in the basement of my house for a hundred dollars a month, and I was desperately in love with her.
    Michael Chabon
  • Mitt did not quite forget his perfect land. He remembered it, though a little fuzzily, next time the wind dropped, but he did not set off to look for it again. It was plain to him that soldiers only brought you back again if you went. It made him sad. When an inkling of it came to him in silence, or in scents, or, later, if the wind hummed a certain note, or a storm came shouting in from the sea and he caught the same note in the midst of its noise, he thought of his lost perfect place and felt for a moment as if his heart would break.
    Diana Wynne Jones
  • A few months ago I read an interview with a critic; a well-known critic; an unusually humane and intelligent critic. The interviewer had just said that the critic “sounded like a happy man”, and the interview was drawing to a close; the critic said, ending it all: “I read, but I don’t get any time to read at whim. All the reading I do is in order to write or teach, and I resent it. We have no TV, and I don’t listen to the radio or records, or go to art galleries or the theater. I’m a completely negative personality.” As I thought of that busy, artless life—no records, no paintings, no plays, no books except those you lecture on or write articles about—I was so depressed that I went back over the interview looking for some bright spot, and I found it, one beautiful sentence: for a moment I had left the gray, dutiful world of the professional critic, and was back in the sunlight and shadow, the unconsidered joys, the unreasoned sorrows, of ordinary readers and writers, amateurishly reading and writing “at whim”. The critic said that once a year he read , it was plain, at whim: not to teach, not to criticize, just for love—he read it, as Kipling wrote it, just because he liked to, wanted to, couldn’t help himself. To him it wasn’t a means to a lecture or an article, it was an end; he read it not for anything he could get out of it, but for itself. And isn’t this what the work of art demands of us? The work of art, Rilke said, says to us always: . It demands of us that we too see things as ends, not as means—that we too know them and love them for their own sake. This change is beyond us, perhaps, during the active, greedy, and powerful hours of our lives, but during the contemplative and sympathetic hours of our reading, our listening, our looking, it is surely within our power, if we choose to make it so, if we choose to let one part of our nature follow its natural desires. So I say to you, for a closing sentence:
    Randall Jarrell
  • There was no getting around the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was only "hooking," while taking bacon and hams and such valuables was plain simple stealing — and there was a command against that in the Bible. So they inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in the business, their piracies should not again be sullied with the crime of stealing.
    Mark Twain

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