Quotes About Sensory

I think 21st century should be art without objects.

The sensory acts are accordingly distinguished by their objects.

I've always found music that is carnal very attractive but not in the most obvious way.

You know," he laughed easily, "with all the goddam drinkin' Ah've done, Ah still can't remember the taste of it unless Ah got the bottle right with me.

Try feeding a five-day hunger with some OJ that tastes like a cup of freezer burn, and nothing to wash it down but a bunch of words you can't get out of your head.

Her clothing smelled of her anxious unwashed female body.

I went to the little window and inhaled the country air. One could hear the breathing of the night, feminine, enormous. (The Blue Bouquet)

Reverso y anverso; el enamorado ve y toca una presencia, el místico contempla una aparición.

Our brain processes incoming sensory input from the bottom up, and if someone has a life with chaotic, uncontrollable, or extreme and prolonged stress, particularly early in life, they're more likely to act before thinking. Their cortex is not as active, and reactivity in the lower areas of the brain becomes more dominant.

Colour is the touch of the eye, Music to the deaf, A word out of darkness.

El color es el tacto del ojo, la música de los sordos, una palabra en la oscuridad.

What is it to be a color? Color is the touch of the eye, music to the deaf, a word out of the darkness.

Una carta no dice lo que quiere decir sólo con lo que está escrito. Las cartas, como los libros, se leen también oliéndolas, tocándolas, manoseándolas.

A letter doesn't communicate by words alone. A letter, just like a book, can be read by smelling it, touching it and fondling it. Thereby, intelligent folk will say, "Go on then, read what the letter tells you!" whereas the dull-witted will say, "Go on then, read what he's written!

Objasnite nekome tko nikad nije iskusio osje?aj crvenog, objasnite mu kakva je to boja, uvaženi majstore. Da je promiješamo vrhom prsta, osjetili bismo je kao nešto izme?u željeza i bakra. Kapnemo li je na dlan, pekla bi nas. Da je liznemo, bila bi jaka kao zasoljeno meso. Kad bismo je stavili u usta, posve bi nas ispunila. Kad bismo je pomirisali, mirisala bi na konja. Da miriše kao cvijet, nalikovala bi kamilici, ne crvenoj ruži.

At night, he could sense the weight of the concrete, the hardness, and the horrors of the city around him.

She worked her toes into the sand, feeling the tiny delicious pain of the friction of tiny chips of silicon against the tender flesh between her toes. That's life. It hurts, it's dirty, and it feels very, very good.

imagine. I imagine it feels like bathing in ice to the person touching her. But how does it feel to her? Cold as she is, it must surely burn like fire.

We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all.

You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of color in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play. I tell you Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play— I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play— I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.

It's like moving through a delicious fog.

A flying chocolate wrapper touched against a fire hydrant. Taxi doors slammed. Bits of trash sparred in the darkest reaches of the alleyways. Sneakers found their sweetspots. The leather of briefcases rubbed against trouserlegs. A few umbrella tips clinked against the pavement. Revolving doors pushed quarters of conversation out into the street.