In a passage suffused with pungent imagery, the narrator foreshadows Aschenbach's later death amid the cholera epidemic in Venice. As Aschenbach walks around the crowded streets of Venice, the narrator states that:
The narrow streets were unpleasantly sultry; the air was so thick that the odors emanating from homes, stores and cookshops—olive oil, clouds of perfume and many others—hung like wisps of smoke without being dispersed [...] The longer he walked, the more tormented he became by the horrible state of health that the sea air can cause in conjunction with the scirocco, a state of excitement and prostration at the same time. He broke out into a distressing sweat. His eyes no longer performed their duty, he felt a tightness in his chest, he was feverish, the blood pounded in his head.
Here, Mann employs detailed imagery, drawing in particular from the senses of smell and touch. As Aschenbach makes his way down the "narrow streets" of the city, he recoils against the "unpleasantly sultry" air, which is "so thick that the odors emanating from homes, stores and cookshops [...] hung like wisps of smoke without being dispersed." This simile highlights the humidity of the air and overall sense of unhealthy miasma that permeated the city. Aschenbach feels increasingly ill as he senses the "horrible state of health that the sea air can cause" in those who are already in poor health, and he breaks out "into a distressing sweat," feeling both visual disorientation, high temperature, and "a tightness in his chest."
Aschenbach, who has long suffered from poor health, finds that his health further deteriorates in the warm and humid city, and his nerves are unsettled by the thick profusion of smells he perceives during his walk. This scene, with its multiple references to sickness, foreshadows Aschenbach's fate at the end of the novel. Though he knows that he should leave Venice for a climate more conducive to his health, he stays in order to remain close to Tadzio and ultimately succumbs to a fatal case of cholera.
As Aschenbach watches Tadzio at the beach, he observes the young boy look upon a loud Russian family with undisguised hostility and irritation. In his reflections, Aschenbach compares Tadzio, in a simile, to a god:
But he was exhilarated and shaken at the same time—in a word, he was in bliss. Through this childish fanaticism directed against that totally good-natured segment of life, what had been as inexpressive as a god was placed within a human relationship; a precious artefact of nature, which had served only as a feast for the eyes, now appeared worthy of a deeper rapport; and the figure of the adolescent, already significant for its beauty, was now set off against a background that made it possible to take him seriously beyond his years.
Aschenbach is, at first, surprised to see Tadzio's aggressive expression, as the boy usually appears polite and mild-mannered. He feels simultaneously "exhilarated and shaken" to see this "childish fanaticism directed against that totally good-natured segment of life," concluding that Tadzio, previously "as inexpressive as a god," was now "placed within a human relationship." Previously, Aschenbach had looked upon Tadzio as if he were a sculpture of a young god, regarding him as remote, cold, and inhuman. When he sees the boy's transparent annoyance, however, he looks upon him, for the first time, as a human coexisting among other humans.
Rather than breaking the spell of Aschenbach's obsession, Aschenbach now feels that Tadzio is "worthy of an even deeper rapport," as he combines, for Aschenbach, both human and godlike traits. Throughout the novel, Aschenbach tends to treat Tadzio more as an ideal than an actual child, perceiving him through the lens of Ancient Greek art and mythology.
In a passage that foreshadows Aschenbach's death at the end of the novel, the narrator uses a simile that compares the famed gondolas of Venice to coffins. When Aschenbach disembarks in Venice and hails a gondola to arrive at his hotel, the narrator states:
Who could avoid experiencing a fleeting shudder, a secret timidity and anxiety upon boarding a Venetian gondola for the first time or after a long absence? The strange conveyance [...] recalls hushed criminal adventures in the night, accompanied only by the quiet splashing of water; even more, it recalls death itself, the bier and the dismal funeral and the final taciturn passage. And have you observed that the seat in such a boat, that armchair painted black like a coffin and upholstered in a dull black, is the softest, most luxurious and enervating seat in the world?
Aschenbach, who has not visited Venice for many years, feels a surprising "fleeting shudder" when he boards the gondola, a small, thin boat that the narrator associates with 'hushed criminal adventures in the night" and "death itself, the bier and the dismal funeral and the final taciturn passage." The narrator, then, casts the gondola in a web of morbid associations, even describing the boat as being "painted black like a coffin." This simile, which highlights the dark color of the gondolas, foreshadows Aschenbach's death at the novel's conclusion, as he falls victim to the cholera outbreak that the city tries in vain to suppress. Aschenbach, then, seems to have a canny vision of his own death as the boards the gondola into the city that he will, ultimately, leave in a coffin.
In a passage suffused with vivid imagery, the narrator uses a simile that compares entering Venice by train to "entering a palace through the back door." As the ship grows closer to Venice and the view of the city becomes clearer to Aschenbach, the narrator states:
And so he saw it again, that most amazing landing place, that dazzling composition of fantastic architecture which the Republic presented to the reverent gaze of approaching seafarers: the weightless splendor of the Palace, the Bridge of Sighs, the columns with lion and saint on the bank, the ostentatiously projecting side of the fairy-tale temple, the view through to the gateway and the giant clock; and, as he gazed, he reflected that to arrive by land, at the Venice railroad station, was like entering a palace through a back door [...]
Here, Mann employs vivid imagery, noting the "dazzling composition of fantastic architecture" characteristic of Venice, including "the weightless splendor of the [Doge's] Palace, the Bridge of Sighs" and the "columns with lion and saint in the back," found in the famed Piazza San Marco. Gazing at the city with the enthusiasm of a tourist, Aschenbach sees "the ostentatiously projecting side of the fairy-tale temple, the view through to the gateway and the giant clock" and he feels that "to arrive by land, at the Venice railroad station, was like entering a palace through the back door." This simile suggests that, for Aschenbach, Venice is best viewed from the sea, rather than by land. The imagery and simile employed in this passage underscore Aschenbach's growing excitement as the ship approaches the city that he regards as an exotic escape from his life in Munich.