Pvt. Cowboy: God almighty, you guys smell like you fell into a dung heap! Crapgame: Kinda makes ya homesick, don't it? Pvt. Willard: [to Pvt. Cowboy] You know it does, kinda ,don't it old buddy?
Morpheus: What is real? How do you define 'real'? If you're talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste and see, then 'real' is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain.
Laura Lee: Kansas was all golden and smelled like sunshine. Josey Wales: Yeah, well, I always heard there were three kinds of suns in Kansas, sunshine, sunflowers, and sons-of-bitches.
Joe Gillis: May I say that you smell really special? Betty Schaefer: It must be my new shampoo. Joe Gillis: That's no shampoo. It's more like freshly-laundered linen handkerchiefs, like a brand new automobile.
Blue: What you need, homey? Jake Hoyt: Crack. 20 bucks' worth. Blue: Crack? [looks at Alonzo] Blue: Smells like bacon in this muthafucka. What I look like, a sucka to you, nigga? Fuck you, rookie.
Old Rose: It's been 84 years, and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in. Titanic was called the Ship of Dreams, and it was. It really was.
Wicked Witch of the West: And now, my beauties, something with poison in it, I think. With poison in it, but attractive to the eye, and soothing to the smell. [cackles] Wicked Witch of the West: Poppies... Poppies. Poppies will put them to sleep. Sle...
Taste is one of the five senses, and the man who tells us with priggish pride that he does not care what he eats is merely boasting of his sad deficiency: he might as well be proud of being deaf or blind, or, owing to a perpetual cold in the head, of...
W.P. Mayhew: I close my eyes I can almost smell the live oak. Audrey Taylor: That's chicken fat Bill. W.P. Mayhew: Well my olfactory's turning womanish on me, lying and deceitful.
W.P. Mayhew: If I close my eyes I can almost smell a live oak. Audrey Taylor: That's chicken fat, hun. W.P. Mayhew: Well, my olfactory's gone all womanish on me. Lyin' and deceitful.
[after recovering his car from the Auto circus] The Dude: Oh, Jesus, what's that smell, man? Auto Circus Cop: Yes, probably a vagrant slept in the car. Or maybe just used it as a toilet and moved on.
Now I sense the perfume of flowers like seeing a new thing. I know they smell just as well as I know I existed. They’re things known from the outside. But now I know with my breathing from the back of my head.
Writers don't make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don't work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell ...
Arya did not dare [take a bath], even though she smelled as bad as Yoren by now, all sour and stinky. Some of the creatures living in her clothes had come all the way from Flea Bottom with her; it didn’t seem right to drown them.
There was something about the smell of books, the ink-and-paper-and-leather scent, the way dust in a library seemed to behave differently from the dust in any other room -- it was golden in the light of the witchlight tapers, setting like pollen acro...
I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
Perfume companies ought to bottle the smell of crisp bacon. Forget pheromones. I’ll bet a woman with a little spot of bacon grease behind her ears would attract every male within a five-mile radius.
And waking, once again, face smudged into Andrea's couch, the red quilt humped around her shoulders, smelling coffee, while Andrea hummed some Tokyo pop song to herself in the next room, dressing, in a gray morning of Paris rain.
Yes, Marya thought, the smell of woodsmoke and old snow pushing back her long black hair. Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all.
While the churches, bringing the sweet smell of piety for the soul, came in prancing and farting like brewery horses in bock-beer time, the sister evangelism, with release and joy for the body, crept in. silently and greyly, with its head bowed and i...
I want to be careful not to throw all this away. This is happiness. I think this is what happiness is. I haven't got it yet, but I can sense it out there. I feel I'm close to it. Some days, I'm so close I can almost smell it.
