Quotes About Sensory

Critical art is an art that aims to produce a new perception of the world, and therefore to create a commitment to its transformation. This schema, very simple in appearance, is actually the conjunction of three processes: first, the production of a sensory form of 'strangeness'; second, the development of an awareness of the reason for that strangeness and third, a mobilization of individuals as a result of that awareness.

They eat the dainty food of famous chefs with the same pleasure with which they devour gross peasant dishes, mostly composed of garlic and tomatoes, or fisherman's octopus and shrimps, fried in heavily scented olive oil on a little deserted beach.

It isn't everyday that we want to see a syrupy Van Gogh or hear a piquant fugue by Bach, or make love to a succulent woman, but every day we want to eat; hunger is the recurring desire, the only recurring desire, for sight, sound, sex and power all come to an end, but hunger goes on, and while one might weary of Ravel for ever, one could only ever weary of ravioli for, at most, a day.

On our garden walks Mama always used to tell me, 'Angels live in gardens, Darcy.' 'Where?' I would ask, looking around for the white-winged beings I saw drawn on my Sunday school papers. 'Close your eyes and breathe deep.' 'All is smell is flowers, Mama,' I would say. 'Not so. That's the breath of the angels. And the stirrings you hear in the leaves are their wings brushing past.

...creases like the leathern boot of Tartar horsemen, curl like the dewlap of a mighty bullock, unfold like a mist rising out of a ravine, gleam like a lake touched by a zephyr, and be wet and soft like a forest floor newly swept by rain.

There was no confusion of our bodies. I knew which arm was his and which mine, and which leg, and which shoulder. I did not lose track and kiss my own arm, or whatever came near my mouth. THe smallest motion did not immediately lead to another motion. It was not endless, I did not go more and more deeply into my body and his body as though to go as far as possible from my mind, and his mind, so conscious, so unrelenting. It did not end while it was still in the middle.

I don't just want to write a story. I want to pull the reader into my ink so they feel the cold of a snowy forest or the pain of a tortured soul. I want them to laugh and cry, to smile and sigh, and when they reach the end of the book and find themselves wishing it hadn't ended...then I've done my job.

The radio was on and that was the first time I heard that song, the one I hate. Whenever I hear it all I can think of is that very day riding in the front seat with Lucy leaning against me and the smell of Juicy Fruit making me want to throw up. How can a song do that? Be like a net that catches a whole entire day, even a day whose guts you hate? You hear it and all of a sudden everything comes hanging back in front of you, all tangled up in that music.

Better this immersion than to live untouched.

the fragrant pinewoods on one side of the road; a blueberry patch on the other. It was as though the positions of each plant and each cloud in the sky pierced her consciousness

All living beings, not just animals, but plants and microorganisms, perceive. To survive, an organic being must perceive - it must seek, or at least recognize, food and avoid environmental danger.

We create space and time on the surface of our retinas.

the tongue, for instance, is privileged with information indifferent to words.

In America we eat, collectively, with a glum urge for food to fill us. We are ignorant of flavor. We are as a nation taste-blind.

I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt, my scalp prickling till I thought it might lift off my head. My tongue ran away from me, giddy with freedom. This, and this, and this, I said to him. I did not have to fear that I spoke too much. I did not have to worry that I was too slender, or too slow. This and this and this! I taught him how to skip stones, and he taught me how to carve wood. I could feel every nerve in my body, every brush of air against my skin.

The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons.

His fingers touched the strings and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once.

His eyelids were the color of the dawn sky; he smelled like earth after rain.

The heat rose up my neck, wrapped fingers over my face. His hair fell around me, and I could smell nothing but him. The grain of his lips seemed to rest a hairsbreadth from mine.

There had never been a sweeter child. He smelled like honey and just-kindled flames. ...Every moment he was with me, I felt a rushing in my throat, which was my love for him, so great sometimes I could not speak.

All I saw was his beauty, his singing limbs, the quick flickering of his feet.

Se inclinó hacia mí, envuelto en bronce, oliendo a sudor, cuero y metal. Cerré los ojos al sentir sobre mis labios los suyos, la única parte aún suave de Aquiles. Después de marcho.

That's the stone," I said, "like I told you. It can't get warm without sun. Haven't you ever touched a statue?

HER FINGERS RAN LIGHTLY over the beams, stroked the threads of the weft like a stable master greeting a prize horse. She asked no questions; she seemed to absorb the loom's workings by touch alone.