Quotes About Sensory

I am telling of the instants that drip and are thick with blood.

Cuando el arte es bueno es porque tocó lo inexpresivo, el peor arte es el expresivo, aquel que transgrede el trozo de hierro y el trozo de cristal, y la sonrisa, y el grito.

I had fallen into the temptation of seeing, the temptation of knowing and feeling.

A PRECEPT With words of ivory, Of bronze, of ebony, Of alabaster, marble, steel, and gold, The beauty of the visible is told. But how with these express The unseen Loveliness— Splendour and light, and harmony, and sound, The heart hath felt, the sense hath never found? No shining words of stone— Shadow and cloud alone— These shall the poet seek eternally, Whose lines would carve the mask of Mystery.

Beauty must appeal to the senses, must provide us with immediate enjoyment, must impress us or insinuate itself into us without any effort on our part.

Wine is] poetry in a bottle.

Gardening has just sort of grown on me. I find it therapeutic. And I like smelly things.

Peacock in real life undid Shelley's vegetarianism by waving a steak under his nose when he fainted,

The sound of the sea you hear in Proust, as if the whole book were a shell held to your ear, is the sound of the amniotic fluid, reminding you, across all your barriers of self-protection, that the first thing you ever heard was voices in the water.

Le blanc bleuté de ses yeux, presque aussi bleu que sa claire robe d'été, l'arrangement parfait et superflu de sa joue, de sa bouche et de ses paupières, ne le touchèrent pas.

No one has ever talked to me as he did of the color blue or of golden hair curling like shavings around a reddened ear ...

But when he said in his heart of hearts "Vinca!", the name inseparably linked with his friend, evoked the memory of sand, warm to kneel on, or trickling out between fingers that held it in a tight squeeze...

Chocolate is both an industry and a sensation.

Sun stain on blanket on my feet. Pleasant then clammy. I smell.

Windisch hears a leaf on the stones in the hallway. It's scratching on the stones. The wall is long and white. Windisch closes his eyes. He feels the wall growing on his face. The lime burns his forehead. A stone in the lime opens its mouth. The apple tree trembles. Its leaves are ears. They listen. The apple tree drenches its green apples.

Windisch closes his eyes. He feels his eyes. He feels his eyeballs in his hands. His eyes without a face.

You think about some of the most memorable meals you've ever had the food will be good but it will often be about locating a mental memory and taste is inexorably linked to all the other senses and memory, so ultimately it is all about taste.

The story of my own childhood is a complicated sentence that I am always trying to finish, to finish and put behind me. It resists finishing, and partly this is because words are not enough; my early world was synesthetic, and I am haunted by the ghosts of my own sense impressions, which reemerge when I try to write, and shiver between the lines.

Paper reassures me, its touch. It's what you respect.

The sun is nearly audible.

Everything smelled wet and feral like it did before a thunderstorm, and she wanted to run, swift and eager, beyond the edge of what she could see.

Her mother bent close, the smell of whiskey and beer and sweat as familiar as any perfume to Kaye.

Wine is brought in coloured carafes. They glow aquamarine and sapphire, citrine and ruby, amethyst and topaz. Another course comes, with sugared violets and frozen dew. Then come domes of glass, under which little silvery fish sit in a cloud of pale blue smoke.

Trees of ice grow blue fruits the size of peaches, encased in a frozen crust. Some have fallen and split open like candy apples. The scent is that of honey and spice and sap. The leaves of the trees give off a haunting sound not unlike wind chimes when the air blows through the branches.