Quotes About Sensory

Mother Marrow gestures to the soup, and I, who can afford no more enemies, bring it to my lips. It tastes of a memory I cannot quite place, warm afternoons and splashing in pools and kicking plastic toys across the brown grass of summer lawns. Tears spring to my eyes. I want to spill it out in to the dirt. I want to drink it down to the dregs.

For me, who has been so much alone, it feels like drowning in a deluge of sights and sounds and smells.

She closed her eyes and felt everyhting: the warmth of the café, the taste of the muffin, the by now familiar smell of coffee and secondhand books.

had to run out of a cinema because the smell of the woman's perfume sitting next to me (Opium) combined with her popcorn made me retch.

Having a baby had been like starting a demanding new job and beginning a passionate love affair and moving to a new country with a different language and culture all at the same time. The baby filled her mind, her heart and her senses. She wanted to inhale her, to gobble her up.

She loved the sound of wind chimes and the smells of essential oils. These were her people; this was her thing. ("Hippies with money," Julia would say.)

He kissed her, over and over, printing blood-flavored kisses on her cheek, her throat, her jaw, her mouth.

He smelled of cigarettes and whiskey, the smell of Cambridge and youth.

It was strong, whatever was between us, thick, like the wet air and the smell of every green thing ready to bloom. Maybe it was just spring. Maybe that's all it was.

I felt something that was almost a cool wind against my arms and face, but not a wind, not even a breeze, just an air current that felt different, as if someone ten feet away had opened the lid of an ice box briefly. I reached out to feel it and, as if I had beckoned it, a great gust struck against my hand. All at once the trees shuddered and the grass skirt about the house swished.

Polky Polky I used to call it." "Dot Dot, actually." Hanne smiled. "Dot Dot. I thought you were the most beautiful singer in the whole world." Oda felt pitched up onto the crest of a wave, like one of those boats far out at sea.

It was strong, whatever was between us, thick, like the wet air and the smell of every green thing ready to bloom.

La cucina bears the scents of its past, and every event in its history is recorded with an olfactory memorandum. Here vanilla, coffee, nutmeg, and confidences; there the milky-sweet smell of babies, old leather, sheep's cheese, and violets. In the corner by the larder hangs the stale tobacco smell of old age and death, while the salty scent of lust and satiation clings to the air by the cellar steps along with the aroma of soap, garlic, beeswax, lavender, jealousy, and disappointment.

Sometimes I think we'd be better off blind.

Heart pounding, she started to prepare the meal that hit her so hard. Her famous cherry tomatoes stuffed with chile, cheese, and bacon, along with pulled pork, endive slaw, and potato pancakes with homemade catsup.

Sometimes I lay my body down on a marble slab . . . and become poetry.

We are the white-eyed, the red-eyed, the eyeless, with full wings, with crumpled vestigial wings. We perceive the buzz of fluorescence you call quiet, its flicker you call light. The chemical stream of your midafternoon banana sings behind our mouthparts. We are the tested.

Did he make you scream? In the middle of ripping shoulder meat from a dead mound did you rock back weak on your haunches, yellow eyes puddling cataract blue, a pulse parting your messy lips?

All I hear is mathematics. All I see is music.

Suddenly I'm no longer aware of the people around us, just the feel and the warmth and the scent of Daniel, and the way he's holding me near to him

I wished there was a way to keep that in a bottle, that one moment of wonderful perfect, so I could open it up whenever I needed to get a good whiff.

in the context of a school trip it was as though they'd all just been released from a sensory-deprivation capsule.

You're surrounded by it wherever you go, you walk through it, breathe it...it's in your lungs and under your tongue and between your fingers and toes.

If you use apple in one dish think of using citrus or something more neutral like vanilla in another. You constantly need to be challenging the tastebuds but not assaulting them.