Quotes About Sensory

The strangeness began as a prickling of my skin. First the quail went silent, then the dove. The leaves stilled, and the breeze died, and no animals moved in the brush. There was a quality to the silence like a held breath. Like the rabbit beneath the hawk's shadow. I could feel my pulse striking my skin.

Its burst of grainy sweetness filled my mouth; the skin was downy on my tongue. I had loved figs, once.

Mis dedos siguieron de forma incesante el ritmo desbocado de su respiración. Sus párpados cobraron el color del cielo al romper el alba. Aquiles olía como la tierra después de la lluvia. Abrió la boca al proferir un grito inarticulado y nos estrechamos uno tan cerca del otro que sentí sobre mi piel el flujo caliente de su pasión.

What had Deidameia thought would happen, I wondered, when she had her women dance for me? Had she really thought I would not know him? I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came, and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

Me desadormeció la presión de su nariz sobre la mía; no dejó de insistir cuando me aferré a las hebras de mis sueños.

I could feel every nerve in my body, every brush of air against my skin.

He smelled like earth after rain.

Had she really thought I would not know him? I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

this is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. this is what it means to be alive. (circle 385)

She brought her wrist up to her nose again. Mmm, it was getting even more interesting. That vanilla note, then something sharper. But it wasn't jasmine, as she'd first thought; it was more lemony, but not obvious kitchen-cleaner lemon... a kind of warm, smoky citrus. Burned lemon peel, that was it.

I am trying to talk about what blue means, or what it means to me, apart from meaning.

all touch starting to sicken, as if the cells of my skin were individually nauseated

She walks slowly. She wants to feel the prick, the push of every bit of gravel under her shoe. She wants to feel every scratch, every discomfort of this....her leaving walk.

The gown rustles and slides around her, speaking a glossolalia all of its own, the silk moving against the rougher nap of the underskirts, the bone supports of the bodice straining and squealing against their coverings, the cuffs scuffing and chafing the skin of her wrists, the stiffened collar hooking and nibbling at her nape, the hip supports creaking like the rigging of a ship. It is a symphony, an orchestra of fabrics, and Lucrezia would like to cover her ears, but she cannot.

The smell of his grandparents' home is always the same: a mix of woodsmoke, polish, leather, wool.

Outside, the colours accost his eyes: the glancing lapis sky, the virulent green of the verge, the creamy blossoms of a tree, the pink kirtle of a woman leading a nag along the road.

He inhales: the aroma of wood, of lime, of something sweet and fibrous. Also a chalky, musky undertone. And the woman beside him: he can smell her hair and skin, one of which carries the faint scent of rosemary

And there is a soreness to her body, it aches, her head feels softened, muzzy. She has acquired a disturbingly acute sense of smell. The odour of print from a magazine someone is reading across a room can oppress her. She knows what will be on their plates at lunch just from sniffing the air. She can walk down the middle of the ward and can tell who has bathed this week and who has not.

His lips tasted cool and sharp, peppermint, winter, but his hands, soft on the back of my neck, promised long days and summer and forever.

And you became like the coffee, In the deliciousness, and the bitterness and the addiction.

In Damascus: poems become diaphanous They're neither sensual nor intellectual they are what echo says to echo . . .

I will choose from my intimate memories what's fitting: the scent of wrinkled sheets after making love is the scent of grass after rain. — Mahmoud Darwish, from "Dense Fog Over The Bridge," If I Were Another: Poems . Translated by Fady Joudah. (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; 1 edition, October 27, 2009) Originally published 2009.

His voice. Never had she heard anything like it, an undulating sound like fine gravel sifted through raw silk.

Smell is an invitation to a journey: it allows us to leave the ordinary course of things and go on a trip, to absent ourselves.