Quotes About Sensory

Music expresses feeling and thought, without language; it was below and before speech, and it is above and beyond all words.

The feel of her was both new and familiar, as though he had held her a long time ago, as though he had missed it without knowing it for years.

He was starting to feel like a truffle pig trying to do its job in a room full of incense, dead fish and strong cheese.

She locked the bathroom door and sat down on the floor in the loose T-shirt she had worn to bed, focusing on her breathing, on the feel of the cool tiles beneath her bare legs, observing, as she had been taught, the rapid beating of her heart, the adrenaline jolting through her veins, not fighting her panic, but watching it. After a while, she consciously noticed the faint smell of the lavender body wash she had used last night, and heard the distant passing of an airplane.

Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings, saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry. ? Robert Hass, from "Meditation at Lagunitas," Praise ( ? Ecco, July 10, 1999)

Have ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry (double graced) Within a lily? Centre placed? Or ever marked the pretty beam A strawberry shows half drowned in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl, and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast.

Sophia remembered visiting one of these unfortunates, an older sister of her mother's, who owned sixteen pug dogs, all of whom slept, ate, and performed their natural functions in the same room as their mistress. "A large number of parrots besides lived in the same room," Sophia wrote. "One can imagine the fragrance which reigned there.

When the combined taste, smell, and textural stimuli reach the brain, they remain to be interpreted. Whether the overall sensation will be pleasant, repulsive, or somewhere in between will depend on individual physiological differences, on previous experience ("just like my mother used to make"), and on cultural habituation (haggis, anyone?).

You seemed all brown and soft, just like a linnet, Your errant hair had shadowed sunbeams in it, And there shone all April In your eyes.

It is a golden maxim to cultivate the garden for the nose, and the eyes will take care of themselves.

The rich smell of the rose was almost visible; I fancied it lent a rosy edge to the shadows cast by the firelight.

It is said that the human brain divides its functions. The right brain is devoted to sensory impressions, emotions, colors, music. The left brain deals with abstract thought, logic, philosophy, analysis. My definition of a great movie: While you're watching it, it engages your right brain. When it's over, it engages your left brain.

it is not the taste considered in itself, that we hold to our lips, and you can no more understand the virtues of a wine through a blind tasting than you could understand the virtues of a woman through a blindfold kiss.

El vino no es sólo un objeto de placer, sino un objeto de conocimiento, y el placer depende del conocimiento

The content of every thought must be given, in the last analysis, in terms of the experiences that warrant it, and no belief can be established as true except by reference to the sensory 'impressions' that provide its guarantee. (This is the general assumption of empiricism.)

The pleasure of the text is that moment when my body pursues its own ideas—for my body does not have the same ideas as I do.

The other's body was divided: on one side, the body proper--skin, eyes--tender, warm; and on the other side, the voice--abrupt, reserved, subject to fits of remoteness, a voice which did not give what the body gave. Or further: on one side, the soft, warm, downy. adorable body. and on the other, the ringing, well-formed. worldly voice--always the voice.

Is the scene always visual? It can be aural, the frame can be linguistic: I can fall in love with a sentence spoken to me: and not only because it says something which manages to touch my desire, but because of its syntactical turn (framing), which will inhabit me like a memory.

The photograph touches me if I withdraw it from its usual blah-blah: "Technique," "Reality," "Reportage," "Art," etc.: to say nothing, to shut my eyes, to allow the detail to rise of its own accord into affective consciousness.

Language is a skin : I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.

morem pellis hispidus distentione nervorum—

Henry inhaled the steam from his cup. "What's that spice?" he asked. "Cardamom, cloves, and saffron," Majid said. "We are addicted to this concoction.

He liked the electric darkness and the hot dirty air and the blasts of noise and traffic and the manic barking sirens and the crush of people. It helped a lonely man feel connected and isolated both at the same time.

chest, pressing damp cotton against her skin, the ball of his thumb down in her cleavage. Not a tender gesture.