Quotes About Sensory

In the utter darkness he felt himself to be nothing but ears and fingertips. He could feel Nipper's heartbeat, putt-putting away behind the toothpick ribs like a tiny motor scooter. He could feel the cold, golden gaze of the trophy pigeon two rooms away. The silence of the house at night was not total. Somewhere a clock was ticking. Cricks and creaks came from nearby and distant quarters, as if the house were twitching in a sleep of its own.

In this colored world of television, gardening was the white cane of a blind man. By changing the channel he could change himself.

The air felt like warm soup.

According to my dad, there were three perfect smells in this world: Fresh-cut grass. A campfire at the edge of a redwood forest. The jubilance of rich black dirt after a thunderstorm.

I think of the feel of water. The way it is when you wade into the ocean and a small wave cascades against you, swirling sand over you and awakening every pore.

Late afternoon arrives, and I'm still unshowered and in my robe. The feel and smell and taste of Esben are all over me, and I love it.

She watched his lips forming the words, at the same time she heard them under her skin, under her winter coat, so near and full of warmth that she felt herself go hot.

He had forgotten the possibility of so many human beings in one space. The concentrated stench of so much life. He welcomed the sun on his skin, the absence of bitter cold. But it was winter in Calcutta. The people filling the platform, passengers and coolies, and vagrants for whom the station was merely a shelter, were bundled in woolen caps and shawls.

Avoiding puddles, stepping over mats of hyacinth leaves that remained in place. Breathing the dank air.

Fiction begins with the senses, and the senses go to work in a place.

Certainly when you're dealing with more deep emotional work and sensory work, for me it helps me to just stay in it.

I see God in the instruments and the mechanisms that work reliably, more reliably than the limited sensory departments of the human mechanism.

Well, I have a lot of food references in my work.

I was a student of Stella Adler and then later Lee Strasberg, and they were into sensory work. At its best, acting is not about words - even when the words are important.

Everything in food is science. The only subjective part is when you eat it.

Glamour is not something you possess but something you perceive, not something you have but something you feel. It is a subjective response to a stimulus.

'Flower' is about the sublime.

You can't experience anything except through thought. You can't experience your own body except through the help of thought. The sensory perceptions are there. Your thoughts give form and definition to the body, otherwise you have no way of experiencing it. The body does not exist except as a thought. There is one thought. Everything exists in relationship to that one thought. That thought is "me." Anything you experience based on thought is an illusion.

In a different direction, the necessity to model the analysis of noisy incomplete sensory data not by logic but by Bayesian inference first came to the forefront in the robotics community with their use of Kalman filters.

The reflexes of interest to Piaget are distinguished from simple reflexes (e.g., sneezing reflex) in that they change as a result of experience and thus have a history (OI, p. 40).

Kant argued that the mind has both receptive capacities and spontaneous capabilities, both operative in human knowledge. For Kant (1787/1933, B74, B93), knowledge has its origin in sensory capacities to receive representations and in intellectual capabilities for knowing objects through them.

Needs themselves are not static but become more complex with the differentiation and integration of sensorimotor schemes (OI, p. 170).

Sensory-motor intelligence aims at success and not at truth; it finds its satisfaction in the achievement of the practical aim pursued, and not in recognition (classification) or explanation. It is an intelligence only lived and not thought. (PDI, p. 238; cf. OI, p. 240)

I love the smell of book ink in the morning.