Quotes About Perception

suggested a "compensating fantasy" here that builds on Smith's arrest and trial in South Bainbridge

Yes. That's why it's so hard to look in a mirror. You are looking at yourself, but you don't recognize yourself. It's a shock. The person you see is older, and heavier, and has wrinkles. But you don't feel that way inside, and it's hard to believe that's how you really look now, how other people see you.

Odadaki file i?aret eden, kral?n ç?plakl???n? gören ki?iydi. (Kurt Vonnegut)

subjectivity of experience presupposes an apprehension of the distinction between one's own experiences and the experience of others,

In short, there is a difference between asking about the property the object is experienced as having (how does the surface of a table feel differently from the surface of an ice cube?) and asking about the property of the experience of the object (what is the experiential difference between perceiving and imagining an ice cube?).

This book challenges such traditional ways of seeing and writing about art.

This relocation of the picture raises an important issue when looking at works of art – quite often they are no longer in their original location, and we see them as part of a historical sequence

identifying, categorizing, interpreting, describing, and thinking about works of art.

In this painting the artist has become more dominant than his subjects

Dali dreamed of Hitler as a white-skinned girl- impossibly pale, luminous and lifeless as the moon.

Pinched silence. Then, "You were the one making eyes at him, always putting yourself in his path.

You're not horribly terrible." He shook his head at her. "You say the nicest things." He held her gaze for a moment. "You're not trying to get into my pants, are you?

I'm a patient man, but I'm not going to wait endlessly." "But...," She stammered. "But what?" "It's so fast." He growled. "When I went slow, you wanted fast. Now I'm going fast, you want slow. Luanne Mayfair, are you trying to drive me crazy on purpose, or is it just a lucky side benefit as far as you're concerned?

If we were in a spreadsheet, we'd be in different columns." She'd be under uptight/nerdy/homely girls, and he'd be under badass men with bodies of..um..Navy SEALS. He grunted. "Just so you know, I hate spreadsheets with a hot, burning passion.

Notice the way the dirt feels under your feet, how great the air smells, how beautiful the trees are, how calm and majestic." He snorted, and she could tell he was fighting not to roll his eyes as he asked, "Calm as opposed to what? All the other trees that run around like headless chickens?

The man's gaze hesitated on the four-inch cut on Joe's left cheek, courtesy of the log that had slapped him in the face on the river. With twenty-some stitches sticking out, the wound looked like a giant red caterpillar was crawling across Joe's face. "Well, that'll disappoint the ladies." But then the captain grunted. "Never mind. With you, they'll probably like it, think it's all manly." He peered behind Joe. "Anyone naked in there?" Joe stepped aside. "I'm having an off morning.

Wendy Belle wasn't the type of model foreign princes married. Yes, tall and graceful, but she didn't radiate a Grace Kelly-like cold beauty. Her lips were too sensuous for that, her eyes too mysterious. Her face was beautiful and perfect in its own way. More than beautiful - interesting. She was the type of woman a man could look at for a lifetime and not get bored.

She drew the main outline, keeping her fingers on the ferrule—the metal piece that clamped the bristles to the handle—and created a nose, mouth, and eyelids. For a moment, she wondered what color his eyes might be, then shoved aside the macabre thought. He had a strong, square jaw, his hair pushed back, looking sticky from the dirt that had been thrown directly onto his face.

had a smattering of chest hair that looked

The truth about our lie. The truth about our lie? Or was it a lie about the truth? Truth and lies. Lies and Truths. Lielielielielie. Truthtruthtruththruthtruth.

I'd watched enough TV in the lonely afternoons after school, before there was a cheese shop to go to, to know that there were boys who lied, who knew how to say just the right thing or give you just the right look. Boys who could make you feel a way you thought you didn't deserve to feel.

It interested Carrie, where the film was going, however obvious its point; how enslaved we are by our bodies, our selves concealed. How much are we our bodies? And why is it so different for women? Why is Nicole's tumid, faded person so much less appealing than worn, old Jack? And it isn't just success or money. It is men and women. Carrie felt a heat rise in her face.

I'm thinking about past events. I'm interested in recall, exact recall, of what was said, who said it and to whom. I want to know the truth, undistorted by time and revision and wishes and regrets.

That is the thing about films. They don't change. You change. The immutability of the film (or a book or a painting or a piece of music) is something to measure yourself against. That is one of the things a great work of art does. It stays there waiting for you to come back to it, and it shows you who you are now, each time a little different.