Quotes About Sensory

He looked down at her and caught a whiff of the honeysuckle fragrance of her hair. God, how he loved that smell. He'd planted fourteen honeysuckle bushes around his estate in Crestwood five years ago just to have a tiny piece of her there with him.

What comfort there is in the skin of someone you love!

I still wasn't convinced that tossing a shoe didn't mean you harbored an anger-management problem, but I did understand love now. How it wrapped around you and made you more aware of the prickles on your skin, the roots of your hair, the intensity of every touch and every inch of you. It was like life on hi-def. Everything was sharper.

Then he was forming letters again, one at a time on her back, while Laurel clung to him, full of heart and body, still joined to him intimately. Wanting his words, needing them, moved profoundly by them. I love you. One letter after the other, until they were all there, telling her everything she needed to know here in the dark.

I'm listening. I listen with my ears and look with my eyes. I can't do two things at once and really concentrate on them. Right now, I'm listening to your voice.

As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.

Wine is one of the most civilized things in the world and one of the most natural things of the world that has been brought to the greatest perfection, and it offers a greater range for enjoyment and appreciation than, possibly, any other purely sensory thing.

Wine is a grand thing, I said. It makes you forget all the bad.

This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste.

For her everything was red, orange, gold-red from the sun on the closed eyes, and it all was that color, all of it, the filling, the possessing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color. - Ernest Hemingway

I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel, she said. I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.

He could see the fish and he had only to look at his hands and feel his back against the stern to know that this had truly happened and was not a dream.

He heard her coming up the stairs and noticed the difference in her tread when she was carrying two glasses and when she had walked down bare-handed. He heard the rain on the windowpane and he smelled the beech logs burning in the fireplace. As she came into the room he put his hand out for the drink and closed his hand on it and felt her touch the glass with her own.

What hast thou against the onion? The odor. Nothing more. Otherwise it is like the rose.

I pointed to the canvas where the rain was making the finest sound that we, who live much outside of houses, ever hear.

Il avait le poisson sous les yeux et il lui suffisait de regarder ses mains et de sentir son dos contre le bois de l'arrière pour savoir que cela était bel et bien arrivé et que ce n'était pas un rêve.

Mary's extremely nice cousin had given us two small square sacking-covered pillows filled with balsam needles. I always slept with mine under my neck or, if I slept on my side, with my ear on it. It was the smell of Michigan when I was a boy and I wished I could have had a sweet-grass basket to keep it in when we traveled and to have under the mosquito net in the bed at night.

Then we ate even smaller eels alone cooked in oil and as tiny as bean sprouts and curled in all directions and so tender they disappeared in the mouth without chewing.

This wine is too good for toast-drinking, my dear. You don't want to mix emotions up with a wine like that. You lose the taste.

it's not a gut instinct per se—it's a neurological response triggered by one or more stimuli that are either unconscious or barely at our sensory threshold.

The colour red doesn't actually exist,' she said. 'It only exists as an idea in your head. Always remember that. You create it yourself when your imagination meets the light.

He had never appreciated just how much the unwashed human smelt previously, was surprised to find himself offended by mere odours.

She was warm and smelt like a wet sparrow.

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