Quotes About Sensory

Tennyson and Browning are poets, and they think; but they do not feel their thought as immediately as the odour of a rose. A thought to Donne was an experience; it modified his sensibility.

It is always the same with me; only when I experience something do I compose, and only when composing do I experience! After all, a musician's nature can hardly be expressed in words.

You're experiencing a bit of the world around you when you experience it's color.

Even trained for years as they all had been in precision of language, what words could you use which would give another the experience of sunshine?

The world we experience with our unaided senses is fluid and animate, shifting and transforming in response to our own shifts of position and of mood.

Visit your local supermarket or retail chain. You'll experience a lot of visual stimulus, but it's unlikely that your other senses will encounter any compelling messages.

I really want to make physical things so that the experience is a real experience and not just conceptual.

Usually my starting point is something that I've seen. It might be a painting, it might be an object. But they always start from a definite sensory experience.

I always want readers to lose themselves completely in a story and feel something, whatever the book invites them to feel. That experience is the best takeaway any book can offer.

Digital music boils down the actual musical experience.

There is an eighth color that we don't have the sense apparatus to see or experience.

For art to be reality, the whole sensuous being must be caught up in the experience.

I guess my poems feel to me a bit like they are doing something in relation to experience, i.e. time.

It's wonderful when music is intellectually stimulating. But ultimately it has to be a visceral experience.

You can turn off the song the way you cannot the actual experience.

Underwater, I experience space with my body. I'll see a school of fish gathering and moving together and I'll exclaim, 'This is architecture.'

I feel completely at peace wrapped around you. Your heartbeat is all I care to listen to. Your face is all I want to look at. Your scent fills me with inescapable bliss. Your touch is what makes my body and mind come to life. I love you.

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 cannot describe it. It is sweet, but not just. It is strong but not too strong. Something like almond, but that still is not right. Sometimes, after we have wrestled, my own skin smells like it.

But all I felt was the coolness against my ankle, where his fingers had been a moment before.

I lean forward and our lips land clumsily on each other. They are like the fat bodies of bees, soft and round and giddy with pollen. I can taste his mouth — hot and sweet with honey from dessert. My stomach trembles, and a warm drop of pleasure spreads beneath my skin. More .

How easily I touch my lips to her hair, soft and smelling of lavender. She sighs a little, nestles closer. Almost, I can imagine that this is my life, held in the sweet circle of her arms. I would marry her, and we would have a child.

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell, I would know him blind, by the way his breath came and his feet struck to earth.

Lo riconoscerei anche solo dal tocco, dal profumo; lo riconoscerei anche se fossi cieco, dal modo in cui respira, da come i suoi piedi sferzano la terra. Lo riconoscerei anche nella morte, anche alla fine del mondo.

Je le reconnaîtrais rien qu'au toucher, ou à son odeur, je le reconnaîtrais si j'étais aveugle, aux seuls bruits de sa respirations et de ses pas martelant le sol. Je le reconnaîtrais dans la mort, à la fin du monde.