Quotes About Sensory

Jesus was no ivory-tower philosopher but a down-to-earth man who understood that much of the good of human life is to be found in taste, touch, smell, and the small attentions of one human being for another.

One very early influence was reading about John Cage's experience in an anechoic room where the only sound you are left with is the high-pitched drone of your nervous system.

I'll see something or hear something. Sometimes, it can be a color. Or a piece of music. Or an image of some kind. I see something, and it has huge emotional weight, although I have no idea why.

He breathed deeply when he reached the sand, tasting salt in the air, feeling like the foreigner he was.

When we went into the ocean, I watched his body as he dove into the waves, and it gave me a feeling in my stomach that wasn't an ache but something different.

The way Misha tells it, he drove like a blind man, giving the car almost full independence to feel its way along, bumping off things, only giving the wheel a spin with the tips of this fingers when the situation verged on life threatening.

The kiss stayed there with no place to go, no sensory reserve that could absorb it and file it away as a common act of intimacy, a thousand times received. He knew what Anna was asking: whether you could love someone without habits.

No es que hayamos olvidado por completo el lenguaje de los gestos (…) cuando está oscuro y no podemos ver, sentimos la necesidad de tocar el cuerpo del otro para hacernos entender".

If were a shower I could saturate your hair Work my way over your lips Across your shoulders Around your waist Through your knees To the tips of your toes And back again Warm wet salty Sweet

I became a kinesthetic person because I always overintellectualize. And feelings, for me, are a concept. Feelings? Ah yes, I've heard of those.

He held up his glass to the light, then gave it a sniff. 'It's got peach, oak, vanilla, lots of vanilla, Sue Ellen loves her vanilla...

Consciousness is some kind of peripheral thing which picks up some of what's going on in our head.

She could hold him close now, touch as she was touched. Taste as she was tasted. The pleasure filled her—the glide of his hands, the heat of his lips, the catch of his breath as they rolled together to find more.

Everything she'd ever read about love was true, she discovered. The sun shined brighter, the air smelled fresher. Flowers were more colorful, the songs of birds more musical.

It was like being rolled over by a steamroller made of flowers, Abigail thought. It didn't really hurt, it was all very pretty and sweet-smelling. But you were still flattened.

Does the smell of pumpkin pie piss you off?

This control of a machine on the basis of its actual performance rather than its expected performance is known as feedback, and involves sensory members which are actuated by motor members and perform the function of tell-tales or monitors—that is, of elements which indicate a performance. It is the function of these mechanisms to control the mechanical tendency toward disorganization; in other words, to produce a temporary and local reversal of the normal direction of entropy.

I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut hosing orgasm.

For sure, even the worst blow job is better than, say, sniffing the best rose ... watching the greatest sunset. Hearing children laugh.

The skin along the parts in her hair, the skin above and behind the doctor's ears, is as clear and white as the skin inside her other tan lines must look. If women knew how their ears come across, the firm fleshy edge, the little dark hood at the top, all the smooth contours coiled and channeling you to the tight darkness inside, well, more women would wear their hair down.

When you ate her tuna casserole, you didn't talk or flip through a National Geographic. Your eyes and ears stayed inside your mouth. Your whole world kept inside your mouth, feeling and careful for the little balled-up tinfoils Irene Casey would hide in the tuna parts. A side effect of eating slow was, you naturally, genuinely tasted, and the food tasted better. Could be other ladies were better cooks, but you'd never notice.

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You can smell diesel and deep-fried food and vomit and powdered sugar. These days, this is what passes for fun.

Jimmy's skin smelled like paint. So much so that when she'd wrap her hand around his dick and jerk it up and down – like shaking a can of spray paint – she'd half expect to hear something rattle inside.