Quotes About Sensory

She heard footsteps brushing the grass, and had a consciousnesss that love was encircling her like a perfume.

you dear, sweet, tantalizing phantom--hardly flesh at all; so that when I put my arms round you I almost expect them to pass through you as through air!

She was in person full-limbed and somewhat heavy; without ruddiness, as without pallor; and soft to the touch as a cloud. To see her hair was to fancy that a whole winter did not contain darkness enough to form its shadow: it closed over her forehead like nightfall extinguishing the western glow.

they washed their hands in one basin. Clare touched hers under the water. Which are my fingers and which are yours? he said, looking up. They are very much mixed. They are all yours, said she, very prettily

I know you're there. I can smell your filthy cigars!

And then her cooing voice, plaintive in expostulation, disturbed the darkness, the velvet touch of her lips passed over his brow, and he could distinguish in the air the warmth of her breath.

Her back seemed to be endowed with a sensitiveness to occular beams...

Dark swarmed behind her eyelids and, in jerky seconds of sleep, she dreamed the dark came into her. Dark came insidious, up her nose and into her ears, damp fingers of dark proposed themselves to each of her body openings. She put her hand over her mouth and nose, put her other hand over her vagina, clenched her buttocks, turned one ear to the mattress and sacrificed the other ear to the intrusion of the dark.

Hannibal could smell him.

She found Starling in the warm laundry room, dozing against the slow rump-rump of a washing machine in the smell of bleach and soap and fabric softener. Starling had the psychology background--Mapp's was law--yet it was Mapp who knew that the washing machine's rhythm was like a great heartbeat and the rush of its waters was what the unborn hear--our last memory of peace.

Heavy in her nostrils the smell of the goat.

They walked, and the long waves rolled and murmured rhythmically beside them; the fresh salty wind blew free and unobstructed in their faces, wrapped itself around their ears, and made them feel slightly numb and deliciously dizzy. They walked along in that wide, peaceful, whispering hush of the sea that gives every sound, near or far, some mysterious importance.

Marusja of the ready laugh, the orange-scented handkerchief, the bosom fair to outward eye.

Once in my life I had pomegranate juice and soda; it was too sweet.

Sun and sea air could not burn his skin, it was the same creamy marble hue as at first—though he did look a little pale, either from the cold or in the bluish moonlight of the arc-lamps. The shapely brows were so delicately drawn, the eyes so deeply dark—lovelier he was than words could say, and as often the thought visited Aschenbach, and brought its own pang, that language could but extol, not reproduce, the beauties of the sense.

Our idea of the things that exist is just our idea of what we can observe.

Poetry is not communication with angels or with the subconscious. It is communication with the guts, genitals, and five portals of sense. Nothing more.

When something real is about to happen to you, you go toward it with a transparent surface parallel to your own front that hums and bisects both your ears, making eyes very alert. The light bends toward chalky blue. Your skin aches. At last: something real.

Business of all kinds, over the centuries, had atrophied certain sense receptors and areas of the human brain, so that for most of the fellows taking part, the present-day rituals were no more, and even maybe a little less, than hollow mummery.

Roger's heart grows erect, and comes. That's really how it feels. Up sharply to skin level in a V around his centerline, washing over his nipples... it is love, it is amazing.

Explanations did not, as far as he could tell, appear to be anything dogs either sought or even were entitled to. Especially dogs who spent as much time as Pugnax did up here, in the sky, far above the inexhaustible complex of odors to be found on the surface of the planet below.

And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her.

The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel.

Ulysse apprit à Calypso le nom des arbres, la couleur d'une fleur, le goût de la papaye, le vibrato d'un do. Il lui apprit à reconnaître les parfums. Celui de l'orange et de la mandarine, de la fleur de violette et de la vanille, de la rose poivrée et de l'ylang-ylang, du bois de cèdre et du patchouli. Et tout cela composait un parfum. Le parfum des femmes qui aiment et s'élèvent dans le ciel.