Quotes About Sensory

Chinese food tries to engage the mind, not just the palate. To provoke the intellect.

Documenting trips makes them that much richer. I stick in train tickets and business cards from restaurants. It makes the whole experience poetic, describing the sights, smells and sounds around me. It means I can relive the holiday years later.

The principles of true art is not to portray, but to evoke.

I truly do feel like scent can change your mood and the feeling in a room.

I don't think as a creator that I could create an experience that truly feels interactive if you don't have something to hold in your hand, if you don't have something like force feedback that you can feel from the controller.

But the truth is that Homo sapiens is a sensual species. I think all species are, to one degree or another.

I love the rain. I want the feeling of it on my face.

If you're in a bar and a certain song comes on and the vibe is just different, it evokes the kinds of things that you want to feel, and if music can do that it's a very special thing.

I could stop and say, Well that was a D minor, G seven, but I really don't want to know that. I just want to know that there's a combination of notes that makes a sound.

We have hands; we can stand on them if we want to. That's our privilege. That's the joy of a mortal body. And that's why God needs us. Because God loves to feel things through our hands.

Theatre has so many competitors, it's no longer enough to see and hear a play. You want to be able to touch and smell it, too.

We're not handling things anymore before they arrive on our doorstep. I like to feel how thin porcelain can be, run my hand over a textile, see if I want to sit in a chair.

I've been thinking about where I want to take my live show. I want everything in it to be pink, gold, and black. I don't want people to feel any other colors, like brown or yellow.

What was I thinking? Fact is I wasn't thinking. I didn't want to think. I wanted to feel.

Are you smelling me?" After yesterday I suspected that my body was giving him all kinds of information I didn't want him to have. "Don't tempt me," he murmured.

She felt his eyes exploring her like ghost hands.

But it seemed to him the world was brighter, more intense, more alive than he had remembered. Colours were more vibrant, shimmering; the scents of ordinary things, wet pavement, bricks in sunlight, unripe peaches, felt layered and dizzyingly complex.

Does fuzzy logic tickle?

Quite suddenly, he is moved. And he sees that the son is moved, too. To keep their emotions alive, the father pours them both another shot. He doesn't want to make the son drunk. He just wants to make him beautiful. And anyone who is moved is beautiful. He is already beautiful. He has beautiful moist eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are silky. And when they toasted the fourth time, he is even gentler. And when he speaks, he speaks so beautifully.

Impulsively, I reached out to touch him him, even though I knew such action would evaporate his fragile corporeality. My hand touched silky hair, felt the hardness of skull beneath. I pulled away, gasping, drawing up my knees. This was too real.

For a while, I relaxed among the greenery, digesting my refreshment, rolling my tongue around my mouth to catch the last sweet nuances of Vee's flavour.

He sensed its great age beneath his feet and even now, closing his eyes upon the busy street, fancied he could sense its previous incarnations, when the streets had been merely mud. Perhaps it had always been filthy.

I rubbed my fingers together, conscious of the fact I had touched something Avirzah'e had held in his hands.

To Othman, it was like a fine brandy, a perfect Armagnac, rolled around the tongue. Such fiery, yet delicate flavours. The garden of Low Mede was ancient, timeless. Hanging there, a ragged shadow some inches above the ground, hidden among the old-fashioned shrubs, the esctatic bouquets of flowers rooted in the earth, Othman vicariously enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. Hadn't he primed Owen for this?