Quotes About Sensory

I can smell him. The oils that he uses on his feet, pomegranate and sandalwood; the salt of clean sweat; the hyacinths we had walked through, their scent crushed against our ankles. Beneath it all is his own smell, the one I go to sleep with, the one I wake up to.

I have heard that men who live by a waterfall cease to hear it—

He holds me so tightly I can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. A torment.

She's like cream, she's that soft. Once her thighs are around you, you'll forget your own name.

She had always lived her best life in dreams. She knew no greater pleasure than that moment of passage into the other place, when her limbs grew warm and heavy and the sparkling darkness behind her lids became ordered and doors opened; when conscious thought grew owl's wings and talons and became other than conscious.

I'm only happy when I forget to exist. When just my eyes or my ears or my skin exist.

Between skin and skin there is only light. And there was my poetry.

A wonderful warmth and numbness embraced his body. He was free, sitting in a rustic little café in an Italian town he'd never heard of, drinking wine, and inhaling the smells of a delicious feast

And when Dr. Daruwalla breathed in her dangerous aroma, he thought he'd at last identified the smell of sex, which struck him as an earthy commingling of death and flowers

smelled of cigars extinguished in puddles of beer.

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.

But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet ..Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Menos mal que mi bigote filtra parte del hedor. Aun así, mis órganos olfativos están empezando a emitir señales de inquietud.

Yet of this massive flow of information no more than about 40 bits per second actually reaches consciousness. We are, in other words, conscious of only a trivial slice of all the information coming into the brain for processing.

Music, uniquely among the arts, is both completely abstract and profoundly emotional.

Vivid images are like a beautiful melody that speaks to you on an emotional level. It bypasses your logic centers and even your intellect and goes to a different part of the brain.

ALL ART, OF COURSE, IS INTELLECTUAL, BUT FOR ME, ALL THE ARTS, AND CINEMA EVEN MORE SO, MUST ABOVE ALL BE EMOTIONAL AND ACT UPON THE HEART.

I've never lived in the visual world. I live very much in an emotional-contact world.

A one woman cabaret of emotional impressionism

Usually, ordinary histories don't get the emotional feel of a period. That's what a novel can do.

My buildings should have an emotional core - a space which, in itself, has an emotional nice feeling.

A painting is not a picture of an experience, but is the experience.

We know not through our intellect but through our experience.