Quotes About Sensory

La conciencia de su propio cuerpo era inseparable del recuerdo de aquel abrazo.

If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memory was, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. She was walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches. She was permeated by familiar smells: wet woodchip and gravel around the base of the tree, newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations.

Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he found himself suddenly accosted by some kind of synaesthetic fixation with the woman: hearing the colour of her hair in the mosque, smelling the touch of her hand on the tube, tasting her smile while innocently walking the streets on his way to work; and this in turn led to a knowledge of every public convenience in London, led to the kind of masturbation that even a fifteen-year-old boy living in Shetlands might find excessive.

He ran his hands over Ken's smooth skin and felt of the muscles

a przecie? kupowa?em w salonach sztuki pudry mikstury ma?cie szminki na szlachetno?? przyk?ada?em do oczu marmur ziele? Veronese'a Mozartem naciera?em uszy doskonali?em nozdrza woni? starych ksi??ek

She was stretched on her back beneath the pear tree soaking in the alto chant of the visiting bees, the gold of the sun and the panting breath of the breeze when the inaudible voice of it all came to her. She saw a dust-bearing bee sink into the sanctum of a bloom; the thousand sister-calyxes arch to meet the love embrace and the ecstatic shiver of the tree from root to tiniest branch creaming in every blossom and frothing with delight.

From barren brown stems to glistening leaf-buds; from the leaf-buds to snowy virginity of bloom…It was like a flute song forgotten in another existence and remembered again. What? How? Why? This singing she heard that had nothing to do with her ears. The rose of the world was breathing out smell. It followed her through all her waking moments and caressed her in her sleep.

Crushing aromatic herbs with every step he took. Spices hung about him. He was a glance from God.

You saw a fluttering fan before her face and magnolia blooms and sleepy lakes under the moonlight when she walked.

The rose of the world was breathing out smell.

Vous devenez si économe que vous finirez par trouver le moyen de vous nourrir en humant l'air de la cuisine.

Pleasure being caused by the union of sensation and sentiment, we can say without fear of contradiction that pleasures are a sort of material ideas.

He let himself be storm-tossed, riding her billowing sea. When she held him like this he could see nothing, but the colour of his blindness was the colour of waves breaking

At the very heart of being a merchant is a desire to tell a story by making sensory, emotional connections. Once, twice, or 16,000 times.

Soms verbeeld ik me dat ik de sneeuw kan ruiken. Ruik jij hem ook, Hans?' 'Ik geloof het wel, ja, het is een geur als van kristal,' zei ik. 'Heeft kristal dan een geur? ... Dat wist ik niet!' 'Nee, natuurlijk niet, maar als het een geur had zou het net de geur van sneeuw zijn.' 'Je bent een vreemde jongen,' lachte zij en voegde er na enig aarzelen spontaan aan toe: 'Een vreemde, lieve jongen.

One senses that Hegel was possible only in German, and finds it natural that Locke in a language where large and red precede apple should have arrived at the thing after sorting out its sensory qualities, whereas Descartes in a language where grosse et rouge follows pomme should have come to the attributes after the distinct idea.

The temperature must have been in the nineties, and there seemed to be far, far too much air in the room. It was bunched and crowded, and in your face and eyes, and it made you think the room was a rush-hour tube train, and a lot of extra air had managed to sneak in just as the doors were closing.

There's an undeniable pleasure in stepping into an open-top sports car driven by a beautiful woman. It feels like you're climbing into a metaphor.

You can be so much in a room that the world outside turns to water. You've got the heater blowing out burnt air, but you still don't get warm. Your ankles are singed, but your head's in a bucket of ice. Time drips like a stalactite. The water for the coffee boils away in a tree of steam.

Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk-flavored chewing gum.

he marveled at that word that had come to his lips out of nothing. "Water, forefinger." The words were coming fast now, tumbling, streaming out of that noplace where the names of all things waited to be used. "I am cold, I can speak, and I am tracing this water down this window with my forefinger.

Fox picked up the cup and blew across its surface. He knew it was going to be the cheapest brand of powdered instant; knew the cup wasn't as clean as it could be. But he would remember the smell and the taste and the pattern on the saucer for the rest of his life.

Dog's just want to sniff an ass and eat some food.

BARQI: AESTHETICS IS ONLY THE LOWEST FORM OF PERCEPTION OF THE REAL.