Quotes About Sensory

I use color in terms of emotional quality, as a vehicle for feeling... feeling is everything I have experienced or thought.

I grew up in the age of polyester. When I got to touch real silk, cotton and velvet, the feel of nonsynthetic fabrics blew me away. I know it's important how clothing looks, but it's equally important how it feels on your skin.

I like to touch things. In my house I have a lot of velvet drapes and thick, lush couches.

Thus I eat the pink as I see the sugary.

At the same time the music was drawn out, dilated, swelled like a waterspout. It filled the room with its metallic transparency, crushing our miserable time against the walls. I am in the music.

Concepts need their physical sounds, their scripted marks, etc. Even if we can imagine words "inside our head", we are conjuring their signifiers, their sensory aspects.

we learn by moving. In order to learn a model of a building, we must walk through it, going from room to room. To learn a new tool, we must hold it in our hand, turning it this way and that, looking and attending to different parts with our fingers and eyes. At a basic level, to learn a model of the world requires moving one or more sensors relative to the things in the world.

through the sensory nerves. The nerves only send spikes. And since we do not perceive spikes, everything we do perceive must be fabricated in the brain. Even the most basic feelings of light, sound, and touch are creations of the brain; they only exist in its model of the world.

Somehow I slogged through the gray soup of the rest of the day and made it all the way home to Rita's at the end of the day, where the soup gelled into an aspic of sensory deprivation.

Rita got up and took the baby away down the hall to the changing table, trailing an aroma that was definitely not pork chop, and I put down my empty plate and settled back onto the couch with a sigh: Dexter Digesting. For

In those days you could identify a person's nationality by smell. Lying on her back with eyes closed, Desdemona could detect the telltale oniony aroma of a Hungarian woman on her right, and the raw-meat smell of an Armenian on her left. (And they, in turn, could peg Desdemona as a Hellene by her aroma of garlic and yogurt.)

Dr. Philbosian smelled like an old couch, of hair oil and spilled soup, of unscheduled naps.

because we watched her so closely out of the corners of our eyes, everything she did made too much noise, her cigarette smoke got into everything, she drank too much wine at dinner.

I was extracted, spanked, and hosed off, in that order. They wrapped me in a blanket and put me on display among six other infants, four boys, two girls, all of them, unlike me, correctly tagged. This can't be true but I remember it: sparks slowly filling a dark screen. Someone had switched on my eyes.

We passed the sticky receiver from ear to ear, the drumbeats so regular we might have been pressing our ears to the girls' chests

The area of the brain devoted to the reading finger of expert Braille readers was much larger than that of the nonreading finger, or of either index finger in nonreaders, Pascual-Leone found. It was a clear case of sensory input increase, with the person paying close attention, leading to an expansion of the brain region devoted to processing that input.

If kittens do not receive visual input between thirty and eighty days after birth (a window of time now known as the critical period), it is too late: the unused eye is blind forever.

The muffin halves popped up from the toaster on the counter behind him, and she stood up to get them, the scent of her mixing with the hot yeasty smell of the muffins, and the buttery, peppery smell of the eggs, and the fat, spicy smell of the sausage, and Shane lost track of where he was in conversation.

He began to eat, only half-distracted by Agnes's food this time- the ham crisp and sweet, the cakes thick and light, studded with pecans, the syrup falling in ropes to mix with the melting butter

Erect, it had been more impressive, a novel juxtaposition of hard and soft, with its glove of silky skin that slid against the stiff, veined flesh underneath.

Oh my God,' Beatrice thought. Her mom had flour on her midsection and crumbs on her bosom. She'd been making brioche, and she smelled like yeast and sugar. It was like a loaf of bread had invaded her room. A loaf of bread that wanted to talk about sex.

I can't forget you, any more than I can forget my own name. He kissed me then, and the world which no longer mattered, completely fell away.

The worst thing one can do for a hyperactive child is to put him or her in front of a television set. Television activates the child at the same time that it cuts the child (or adult) off from real sensory stimulation and the opportunity for resolution.

I was feeling nine ways at once, and they all ended up at the touch of her hand on my ear...