Quotes About Sensory

Dancers can look at a mirror, a writer can look at a page, and a painter can look at a canvas and see their work reflected back at them. But singers can only hear and feel what they are doing. After all the training, technique, use of breath, and placement of sound, it boils down to an emotional response to music and lyrics---and the way they touch one's heart and soul

The line of Miss Eversea's spine seemed positively 'alive' with... something. Outrage? Horror? Hilarity? He noticed the very fine line of hair traveling up the fragile nape of her neck, and something about that intimate little trail made the back of his own neck tingle as though she'd brushed her fingers there. Something entirely unexpected was happening in the region of his solar plexus.

She most definitely had an instinct for passion, an instinct that matched his own, that had nearly caused him to lose his head. Well, now he knew her skin was petal smooth; he knew the rich wine of her mouth; he knew the feel of that delicate, puckered nipple rubbed against his cheek---

How he felt (hard as a wall, safe as a house, dangerous as a wild animal), how he smelled (sweat, sawdust, smoke, musk, sex), how he tasted (like sin, if sin was a liqueur)- taken together they should have all comprised an adventure. And then a lesson. And then be rapidly consigned to history.

When she drew near, the rich musk of him wrapped her again: shaving soap, ale, and that delicious, darker something--- him . It might as well have been opium for what it did to the run of her thoughts.

The crunch of the mustard-spiked crust somehow brings the unctuous smooth richness of the liver into sharp relief. It's like the silky soul of steak. You have to close your eyes, let the meat melt on your tongue, into your corpuscles.

So benumbed are we nowadays by electric lights that we have become utterly insensitive to the evils of excessive illumination

More than anything else, I love the sensation of the weight of the soup in my hand when I hold the soup bowl in my hand and the warm, fresh taste of the soup. It's like having the warmth of a newborn baby's squishy flesh in my hand.

I know few greater pleasures than holding a lacquer soup bowl in my hands, feeling upon my palms the weight of the liquid and its mild warmth. The sensation is something like that of holding a plump newborn baby.

A igual blancura, la de un papel de Occidente difiere por naturaleza de la de un hosho7 o un papel blanco de China. Los rayos luminosos parecen rebotar en la superficie del papel occidental, mientras que la del hosho o del papel de China, similar a la aterciopelada superficie de la primera nieve, los absorbe con suavidad. Además, nuestros papeles, agradables al tacto, se pliegan y arrugan sin ruido. Su contacto es suave y ligeramente húmedo como el de la hoja de un árbol.

I know of few greater pleasures than holding a lacquer soup bowl in my hands, feeling upon my palms the weight of the liquid and its mild warmth. The sensation is something like that of holding a plump newborn baby.

Cobbles are enormously evocative, like the scent of forgotten objects and remembered melodies.

Nuevamente se volvió a mirar a la mujer, y sin embargo, no sintió ninguna tentación de acercarse más. Una mujer cubierta de arena podía resultar visualmente atractiva, pero no inspiraba el deseo de tocarla.

just as, in the dark, one sees only darkness whether one keeps his eyes open or shut, looks right or left.

Where, My Lord, is music bred—upon the instrument or within the ear that listens? The loveliness of woman is created in the eye of man.

This woman, this Chef has the ability to transform a dinner into a kind of love affair, a love affair that makes no distinction between the bodily appetite and the spiritual appetite.

I felt her loss in a powerfully physical way. I missed her smell and the sticky wet of her breath on my neck. I missed her fingers scratching through my hair. We sat next to each other, lay across each other, pushed, pulled, stroked, and struck each other a hundred times a day and I suffered the deprivation of this. It was an ache, a hunger on the surface of my skin.

Her hearing had faded out as soon as he'd touched her—maybe it was the angels playing harps or the exploding fireworks. Maybe her drink was too strong or her heart was too lonely.

The only memory I have was how the wrestler's balls that were thrust into my face left a saltiness on my lips.

Sometimes I would like to cry. I close my eyes. Why weren't we designed so that we can close our ears as well? (Perhaps because we would never open them.) Is there some way that I could accelerate my evolution and develop earlids?

When you chopped logs with the ax and they split open they smelled beautiful, like Christmas. But when you split someone's head open it smelled like abattoir and quite overpowered the scent of the wild lilacs you'd cut and brought into the house only this morning, which was already another life.

could smell the peppery-sweet perfume of pinks

A man that has a taste of music, painting, or architecture, is like one that has another sense, when compared with such as have no relish of those arts

When a man is small, he loves and hates food with a ferocity which soon dims. At six years old his very bowels will heave when such a dish as creamed carrots or cold tapioca appear before him.