Quotes About Sensory

I pushed my cart along the aisle. Wilder sat inside, on the collapsible shelf, trying to grab items whose shape and radiance excited his system of sensory analysis.

She took a bite of cereal and forgot to taste it. She lost the taste somewhere between the time she put the food in her mouth and the regretful second she swallowed it.

Every bad smell is about us. We make our way through the world and come upon a scene that is medieval-modern, a city of high-rise garbage, the hell reek of every perishable object ever thrown together, and it seems like something we've been carrying all our lives.

It was a period of looks and glances, teeming interactions, part of the sensory array I ordinarily cherish. Heat, noise, lights, looks, words, gestures, personalities, appliances. A colloquial density that makes family life the one medium of sense knowledge in which an astonishment of heart is routinely contained.

I am aware that when we see something, we are getting only a measure of information, a sense, an inkling of what is really there to see. I don't know the details or the terminology but I do know that the optic nerve is not telling the full truth. We're seeing only intimations. The rest is our invention, our way of constructing what is actual, if there is any such thing, philosophically, that we can call actual.

He immersed a piece of steak in the gravy that sat in the volcanic depression, then put it in his mouth. But he did not begin chewing until he'd scooped some potatoes from the lower slopes and added it to the meat. A tension seemed to be building around the question of whether he could finish the gravy before the potatoes collapsed.

Good designers worry a lot about the physical feel of their products. Physical touch and feel can make a huge difference in your appreciation of their creations. Consider the delights of smooth, polished metal, or soft leather, or a soil ...

Nothing like a suck of the breast.

I read poems for the pleasure of the mouth. My heart is in my mouth, and the sound of poetry is the way in. ~from an interview in Narrative magazine

I felt like I was in a movie and had two cameras for eyes

Colors so bright, they nearly broke my heart.

but it was excruciating to emerge from my eerie submarine existence into this harsh stampede of noise and light.

But even that day, there on the porch, with Charles beside me and the smell of wood smoke in the air, it had the quality of a memory; there it was, before my eyes, and yet too beautiful to believe.

I slept all day, face down in the pillow, a comfortable dead-man's float only remotely disturbed by a chill undertow of reality—talk, footsteps, slamming doors—which threaded fitfully through the dark, blood-warm waters of dream.

She raised up on tiptoe and gave me a cool, soft kiss that tasted of Popsicles. Oh you, I though, my heart beating fast and shallow.

The smells, the shadows, even the dappled pale trunks of the plane trees lifted my spirits

The cab smelled like curry, cigarettes, and body odor, and the safety glass between me and the driver had cracks in it.

Do not think to swim below. The ocean is already pushing into ears, sinuses, temples, the softness of eyes, and the harpsichord strings behind the kneecaps.

where the humid night-time air enveloped them like a heavy cloud.

t was beautiful, being there with Elliott. It was like there was nothing except him and me. I remember his palms, his chest, his chin, but it was like we were more than just our bodies. As if our essence was there in the darkness.

Who knows if all our brains are inventing the same thing? I mean, how do we know that the thing YOUR eyes see and call "red" is the same thing that I call "red"?

Nothing spoils idle pleasure like too much awareness

Sometimes I'm just sitting in my room and a song will come on the radio that stops something inside of me, makes me sit up straight on my bed and listen. Sometimes, it's the piano chords, a sweet riff that has all eighty-eight keys talking. Sometimes it's the drums—high hat telling a story—I don't know how to explain the way music moves through my brain and my blood and my bones.

Paris at Night Trois allumettes une à une allumées dans la nuit La première pour voir ton visage tout entier La seconde pour voir tes yeux La dernière pour voir ta bouche Et l'obscurité tout entière pour me rappeler tout cela En te serrant dans mes bras