Quotes About Sensory

She turned to him, shook her head. Her black hair tossed, and the beams of the late-afternoon sunlight played upon it, sending brief ripples of red and green and blue through it the same way that light, shimmering on the black surface of oil, creates short-lived, wriggling rainbows.

I believed that I now knew what a lobster felt as it languished in a tank beside the maître d' station in a restaurant, while hungry patrons, waiting to be seated, tapped the glass and remarked upon its size and succulence.

Even as I regarded those two men, I became aware of the flying beams of the spotlights, to the north-east, painting ephemeral infinity symbols across the pregnant clouds that increasingly commanded the sky, of the distant roller-coaster chain clacking through the ratchet angles of the guideway as cars full of riders climbed an incline toward the next long drop, of the dusty smell of the campground, and of the scent of rain pending.

His senses are sodden with lust, so he cannot think, and this sensory overload, this incogitant drowning in sensation

Poetry is not efficient. If you want to learn how to cook a lobster, it's probably best not to look to poetry. But if you want to see the word lobster in all its reactant oddity, its pied beauty, as if for the first time, go to poetry. And if you want to know what it's like to be that lobster in the pot, that's in poetry too.

Color is a feeling for me. I work by feeling! —Tina, Freia Handpaint Yarns

I've always loved catching snow on my eyelashes.

she inhaled deeply and nearly choked. It tasted like shit.

For his part he sensed with despair that he wouldn't come, no matter how long they kept at it. But this activity made him happy, he could stand here all night and offer pleasure to this other human being, this creature of form and flesh crying like an anvil.

Mercy, but he smelled good. All piney and musky and manly. There should be a law.

She told him that he had the most beautiful voice she'd ever heard, that it sounded like whiskey and wood smoke.

Men and women who live all their lives in centrally heated homes and offices, and go in the car to post a letter and collect the children from school, and have labour-saving devices for every conceivable purpose (including electric tooth-brushes and carving-knives)—such people have become so sensually unaware and so unresponsive to physical challenges that they are only half-alive.

The proper way to eat a fig, in society, Is to split it in four, holding it by the stump, And open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honied, heavy-petalled four-petalled flower.

Without even realizing it, Camille had fallen under the spell of the siren's call: the sound that contains the scent of berries, chocolate, and mint, that tastes of salt and oil and blood, that sounds like a heart's murmur, the passage of clouds, the call to prayers, the beloved's name, and a distant ringing in the ears.

Han breaks a tangerine into sections and feeds them to her one by one. Then he cuts a lemon in half, sprinkles a spoonful of sugar over the cut top, and bites into it. Sirine looks around at the wandering palms and the dusty street. Just that morning the radio weatherman had said it would be an Indian summer scorcher. She slices open an avocado and sprinkles it with coarse salt before handing it to Han.

She collects a tray from the kitchen: arranges almond and mango cream puffs, brown sugar lace cookies, and miniature napoleons of vanilla and guava: fleeting breaths of pate a choux and buttercreams that dissolve in single bites.

She pulls her uncle's topaz prayer beads out of her pockets and settles herself by thinking of braised squab: a sauce for wild game with motes of cinnamon and smoke.

She lifts the lid from the pan of smoked green wheat kernels and dips in a spoon. Here. Taste. He holds the spoon in his mouth for a moment. She knows what he is tasting, how the broth is flavored with pepper and garlic and lustrous, deep smokiness. And try this, she says. Vibrant vegetable greens, garlic, and lemon. And this. Herbal, meaty, vaguely fruity.

She removes the pint of apricots, plump and exquisite as roses, and offers him one. He takes a bite and puts his hand over hers as she takes a bite, the velvety peel and fruit sugar filling her whole mouth. The air between them is complicated, infused with the scents from the bags: toasted sesame, sweet orange blossom water, and fragrant rosewater.

She takes a bite of the custardy penne cotta and it melts into a dozen separate flavors. She can smell oranges and lemons, cherry and wood, and even the soft silk and wool of Persian carpets, the smell that she thought came from Iraq.

It wasn't a thing I had consciously missed, but having it now reminded me of the joy of it; that drowsy intimacy in which a man's body is accessible to you as your own, the strange shapes and textures of it like a sudden extension of your own limbs.

I kissed his cheek, damp and salty. I could feel his heart beating against my ribs, and wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, not moving, not making love, just breathing the same air.

His head bowed and his lips fastened softly on my nipple. I groaned, feeling the half-painful prickle of the milk rushing through the tiny ducts. I put a hand behind his head, and pressed him slightly closer. "Harder," I whispered.

I could feel his heart beating against my ribs, and wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, not moving