Quotes About Sensory

Hva vet et menneske om virkeligheten? Kan vi noengang skjelne mellom det som er vår egen private stemning, det som stiger opp av vårt eget indre altså, og det som når frem til oss som bølgeslag utenfra?

As a girl, I used to believe that I could see and taste the air. I was TOLD that was impossible and forgot how to do so.

People who read poetry, for example, like the feel, the heft and the smell of a book.

I cannot climb out onto the nature of your mind. So how then do I know anything about your mental life? How do I know, for instance, that you see the colour blue the way that I do? Might it be that some of us feel pain more, but make less fuss about it, or that others feel pain less, but make more fuss?

We're still analogue beings. Our brains and eyes are analogue.

She once told me that she loved me because I was the only thing she could hear. She can feel the vibration of the strings through the carved vessel of her instrument, but I am inside her. I am a song soaked into each bone of her secret body where the world has not been able to wander.

Mon climat intérieur est tropical aujourd'hui : il y a de la pluie, du soleil, des odeurs fortes, et un sentiment de pourriture végétale flotte dans l'air débilitant.

Emotion is always part of perception, not distinct from it.

Art can speak to what falls outside theory, and it can also embody felt ideas.

I'm fond of that little scene. Whether my memory is completely accurate or not, it has a sharpness that nothing I look at now can possibly have.

Minusta tuntuu hyvältä nähdä luuni. Pidän siitä että näen ja tunnen ne. Kun minun ja luitteni välillä on liikaa lihaa, tuntuu kuin jotenkin etääntyisin itsestäni. Ymmärrätkö?

Most people aren't attacked by colors.

I liked the streets as much as museums, and I spent hours in the city wandering around, inhaling the garbage.

Love surrounds you like steam in the shower. You can't see the individual drops, but you get warm. And wet. And clean.

He stepped down, avoiding any long look at her as one avoids long looks at the sun, but seeing her as one sees the sun, without looking.

I love the smell of diapers; I even like when they're wet and you smell them all warm like a baked good. I love the smell of Balmex. Love it.

I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky — that's all it is. It's not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with one's stomach.

Making love without noise is like playing a muted piano-fine for practice, but you cheat yourself out of hearing the glorious results.

On the level of simple sensation and mood, making love surely resembles an epileptic fit at least as much as, if not more than, it does eating a meal or conversing with someone.

Love you not, then, to list and hear The crackling of the gorse-flower near, Pouring an orange-scented tide Of fragrance o'er the desert wide?

I like chocolate. I don't eat it, but I like the smell of it. People can drink with their eyes; I can eat with my nose. I would love to have a perfume based on chocolate.

A book is really like a lover. It arranges itself in your life in a way that is beautiful. Even as a kid, my sister, who was the eldest, brought books home for me, and I think I spent more time sniffing and touching them than reading. I just remember the joy of the book, the beauty of the binding. The smelling of the interior. Happy. [Interview with Emma Brockes, The Believer , November/December, 2012]

If I have an unusual gift, it's not that I draw particularly better than other people — I've never fooled myself about that. Rather it's that I remember things other people don't recall: the sounds and feelings and images — the emotional quality — of particular moments in childhood. Happily an essential part of myself — my dreaming life — still lives in the light of childhood.

Okay, now, fair warning: If you're super-sensitive to words, skip this paragraph. But I'm telling you, this smell, this growing stink drifting down toward me, could only be described as that word that's created when F meets Art.