Best 1022 quotes in «taste quotes» category

I started thinking more about music. I thought I'd accepted the fact that, as part of "Being Gretchen," I didn't really like music, but in fact, the truth was slightly different: I thought I didn't like music, but in fact, I didn't approve of my own taste--I wished I liked sophisticated music, like jazz or classical or esoteric rock. Instead, my taste ran mostly to what might play on a lite FM station. Oh, well. Be Gretchen.

I think “taste” is a social concept and not an artistic one. I’m willing to show good taste, if I can, in somebody else’s living room, but our reading life is too short for a writer to be in any way polite. Since his words enter into another’s brain in silence and intimacy, he should be as honest and explicit as we are with ourselves.

It tastes of the most bitter poison . . I've never tasted something so disgusting." - Mark Blackthorn

It took the mountain top, it seems to me now, to give me the sensation of independence. It was as if I'd discovered something I'd never tasted before in my short life. Or rediscovered it - for I associated it with the taste of water that came out of the well, accompanied with the ring of that long metal sleeve against the sides of the living mountain, as from deep down it was wound up to view brimming and streaming long drops behind it like bright stars on a ribbon. It thrilled me to drink from the common dipper. The coldness, the far, unseen, unheard springs of what was in my mouth now, the iron smell, all said mountain mountain mountain as I swallowed. Every swallow was making me a part of being here, sealing me in place, with my bare feet planted on the mountain and sprinkled with my rapturous spills. What I felt I'd come here to do was something on my own.

It is impossible to have bad taste, but many people have none at all.

It is not important that others like what you like. All that matters is that you like it.

It tastes like water spiked with strange.

It was as though he had secrets, and he wanted you to know he would keep them for the pleasure of depriving you of their taste.

It wasn't often that I had difficulty tasting something. Flavor was the way people like me made sense of the world. We knew that there was a flavor that explained you-even to yourself. A flavor whose truth you recognized when you tasted it. A flavor that answered the question you didn't know you had. Perhaps it was a voluptuous vanilla that your sharp-edged self could sink into like a pillow. Or a homesick pomegranate, each seed like a ruby slipper that would take you back to the place where you were loved and where people had missed you.

Men jeg drister mig, uden Vanitet, at sige, at vore Nordiske Tilskuere, helst af Middelstand, ere langt beqvem-mere Dommere herudi, end de Parisiske: Thi hvis de første ikke have saa fiin Smag som de sidste, saa have de den dog ikke saa selsom og fordærved.

Marriage is one sweet way in which one can taste heaven on earth. Similarly, I can also become hell on earth.

Music is the 'pure' art par excellence. It says nothing and has nothing to say. Never really having an expressive function, it is opposed to drama, which even in its most refined forms still bears a social message and can only be 'put over' on the basis of an immediate and profound affinity with the values and expectations of its audience. The theatre divides its public and divides itself. The Parisian opposition between right-bank and left-bank theatr, bourgeois theatre and avant-garde theatre, is inextricably aesthetic and political.

- No accounting for taste, really. - If that were true, all critics would be out of a job.

Nothing can be well learned that is not agreeable to one’s natural taste.

Nothing tastes as good as the Taste for Life.

Mapenzi ni kiburudisho kisichojulikana ladha yake. Huwezi kuyazuia.

My dream was one day ordering a drink and finding out it tasted wonderful.

My mind seems to have become a kind of machine for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts, but why this should have caused the atrophy of that part of the brain alone, on which the higher tastes depend, I cannot conceive.

Normal consumers declare rock to be dead whenever they personally stop listening to it (or at least to new iterations of it), which typically happens about two years after they graduate from college.

Oh taste and see!! Great Barbados, I love thee!

Oh life is like potatoes and oignons; In cooking you find many layers to peel Go deep to really know what's going on. Nevertheless you still have to cook to feel Over the mouth their taste smooth the tongue Not only you appreciate but make it known So they are more than how they look in the grill.

One not only wants to be understood when one writes, but also quite as certainly not to be understood. It is by no means an objection to a book when someone finds it unintelligible: perhaps this might just have been the intention of its author, perhaps he did not want to be understood by "anyone”. A distinguished intellect and taste, when it wants to communicate its thoughts, always selects its hearers; by selecting them, it at the same time closes its barriers against "the others". It is there that all the more refined laws of style have their origin: they at the same time keep off, they create distance, they prevent "access" (intelligibility, as we have said,) while they open the ears of those who are acoustically related to them.

On Fifth Avenue I went into the Trump Tower, a new skyscraper. A guy named Donald Trump, a developer, is slowly taking over New York, building skyscrapers all over town with his name on them, so I went in and had a look around. The building had the most tasteless lobby I had ever seen --- all brass and chrome and blotchy red and white marble that looked like the sort of thing that if you saw it on the sidewalk you would walk around it. Here it was everywhere --- on the floors, up the walls , on the ceiling. It was like being inside somebody's stomach after he'd eaten pizza.

Number of empty Ben & Jerry's containers: 3 -- two mint chocolate cookie, one plain vanilla. (Who buys plain vanilla ice cream from Ben & Jerry's, anyway? Is there a greater waste?)

Once you taste love, the tongue refuses to experiment.

One might trouble one's dainty snout with a whiff of the taleggio displayed in an artisanal cheese shop, or take a saucer of jasmine tea and a knuckle of fennel-scented snuff at a counter of buffed Big Nothing granite. But there was a want in these ladies yet, and it was for the rude life of youth.

One picks one's way about through the glass and aluminum doors, the receptionists' smiles, the lunches with too much alcohol, the openings with more, the mobs of people desperately trying to define good taste in such loud voices one can hardly hear oneself giggle, while the shebang is lit by flashes and flares through the paint-stained window, glimmers under the police-locked door, or, if one is taking a rare walk outside that day, by a light suffusing the whole sky, complex as the northern aurora.

On the third day, she smelled the fruit as soon as she came in. She followed the scent to the kitchen, and the peach was radiant, dusky rose and gold, its skin so plush she thought her fingertip might bruise it. This was the day, the very hour to eat- and she had come prepared, but she didn't want Concepcion to see her. She waited until the housekeeper shouldered her leather-handled canvas bag and left. Then Jess unwrapped the organic peach she'd bought that morning. Slightly smaller, slightly harder, but decently rosy, the peach listed left- just the right direction- when she set it on the table. Leaving this changeling for George, she washed his ripe fruit, and bit and broke the skin. An intense tang, the underside of velvet. Then flesh dissolved in a rush of nectar. Juice drenched her hand and wet the inside of her wrist. She had forgotten, if she'd ever known, that what was sweet could also be so complicated, that fruit could have a nap, like fabric, soft one way, sleek the other.

People who like this sort of thing will find this the sort of thing they like. [in review of a book]

Raw persimmon is an acquired taste," he said, handing me a slice, "but I have a feeling you'll like this one." I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. 'I'm a baker, Ogden,' I wanted to say. 'Of course I know what persimmon tastes like.' I bit into the fruit. It had the texture of a firm heirloom tomato and a heady, semisweet taste as though infused with a tiny drop of honey. I nodded and made a sound of approval. "You didn't order any, but I brought you a few to try anyway. I wondered if maybe they might inspire a new cupcake flavor for the holidays," Ogden said. He kept his serious brown eyes trained on the persimmon in his hand while he spoke, a gesture that seemed oddly bashful and entirely unlike him. "You'll have to excuse me if that sounds presumptuous. I'll be the first to admit I know nothing about the recipe creation process." I took another bite of persimmon, considering. Ogden held himself very still as he watched me chew, and I appreciated the restraint he showed in not jumping in to fill the silence. I knew it couldn't have been easy for him. "You have good instincts," I said finally. "A persimmon cupcake could be a great addition to the menu. Add some chocolate, a little cinnamon and cardamom, some sweet vanilla icing, and I think we'd have a new Christmas favorite." "You don't think persimmon is too adventurous for your patrons?" "Nah," I said. It was actually nice to talk to someone who took food as seriously as I did- I only wished he could do so without sounding so pompous. "But we might have to lead with the chocolate. Chocolate Persimmon Spice. That wouldn't offend you, would it? If I promised to use organic chocolate?" "I think my ego can handle a little organic chocolate," Ogden said.

Procrastination and excuses are sour spices that spoil the sweet taste of an effective work. They must hence, not be prompted under desire, partly because they are strictly time-stripping and also because they have no known essence.

Returning to the buffet, she helped herself to another piece of focaccia bread, the top glistening with a sheen of olive oil and sprinkled with big crystals of salt, fronds of rosemary and tiny curls of thinly sliced garlic. She tasted the bread and made a sound of pleasure that would have embarrassed her if anyone had heard. "It's even better with this Cabernet." Dominic Rossi stood there with two full glasses of red wine. Tess felt her face heat with a blush. Okay, so he'd heard.

Roho haina mifumo ya ufahamu! Haina pua, haina macho, haina ladha, haina harufu wala haina masikio. Kwa sababu roho haina mifumo ya ufahamu mtu, anapokufa mifumo yake yote 21 aliyokuwa nayo binadamu huoza na kuwa udongo. Hivyo, kuongea na mtu aliyekufa ni sawa na kuongea na udongo ukitegemea udongo huo ukusikie au uongee na wewe.

Roselyn lost her taste for bacon momentarily, which was as long as she was ever capable of losing it.

She too looked like a regular lady, living in the world- didn't seem particularly with it or excitable or stellar. But that chicken, bathed in thyme and butter- I hadn't ever tasted a chicken that had such a savory warmth to it, a taste I could only suitably identify as the taste of chicken. Somehow, in her hands, food felt recognized. Spinach became spinach- with a good farm's care, salt, the heat and her attention, it seemed to relax into its leafy, broad self. Garlic seized upon its lively nature. Tomatoes tasted as substantive as beef.

She might have managed to swerve through the crowds to rescue Henry, but that tray of oysters came by and she was distracted. She took one and a lemon, squeezing it so hard the juice stung her eye. 'Fair price,' she thought as she tipped the oyster into her mouth. It slid down her throat, with an echo of the sea, the siren song of salt and rock and dark depths.

Smile once a while; even if life tastes like bitter bile, just file out your teeth and cheeks and take a mile of sweet smiles... Smile, make it your life's style. Decorate your face with piles of smiles!

So," he explains. "Take the piece of bread, dip it in the olive oil and then in the spice and nut mix, and then smear some of the spicy carrot dip on top." The appetizer is complicated to assemble, but absolutely delicious. The bread, a hearty baguette from La Boulangerie, is a chewy, crusty foil for the buttery oil, savory crunchy nut mixture, and sweet and spicy carrot puree. An explosion of flavor and texture. He also has some creamy local chèvre, and marinated olives.

Some people's taste is to an educated taste as is the visual impression received by a purblind eye to that of a normal eye. Where a normal eye will see something clearly articulated, a weak eye will see a blurred patch of colour.

Some people when they see cheese, chocolate or cake they don't think of calories.

revenge is only sweet to those whom rancor have distorted their taste.

She walked empty handed in the street, where everyone sold their dreams. Ignoring the cold stares of the demon, which guarded it and always craved for the taste of the things every soul hid. At the dead end, it leapt on her. Digging the nails deep into her chest, in the search of the dreams, she hid. Only to be destroyed by the light shot from her heart. The light that blinded the whole world, setting the dreams of others free.

Sin bites bitter. But oh, the sweet taste of salvation, that stirs the spirit!

Some people have such good taste they can't enjoy anything.

Su interés en la obra es simplemente moral o simplemente físico, y no es precisamente lo que debe ser: estético. Lectores tales gozan de una poesía sería y patética como de un sermón, y de una poesía humorística e ingenua, como de una bebida embriagadora, y carecen lo bastante de gusto para exigir edificación en una tragedia o epopeya.

Such competence is not necessarily acquired by means of the 'scholastic' labours in which some 'cinephiles' or 'jazz-freaks' indulge. Most often it results from the unintentional learning made possible by a disposition acquired through domestic or scholastic inculcation of legitimate culture. This transposable disposition, armed with a set of perceptual and evaluative schemes that are available for general application, inclines its owner towards other cultural experiences and enables him to perceive, classify and memorize them differently. . . . In identifying what is worthy of being seen and the right way to see it, they are aided by their whole social group and by the whole corporation of critics mandated by the group to produce legitimate classifications and the discourse necessarily accompanying any artistic enjoyment worthy of the name.

Taste is a mystery.

Taste without truth is tasteless.

That Greiner house, now—a typical rung in the social ladder! The man who built it came from a MILIEU where all the dishes are put on the table at once. His facade is a complete architectural meal; if he had omitted a style his friends might have thought the money had given out. Not a bad purchase for Rosedale, though: attracts attention, and awes the Western sight-seer. By and bye he'll get out of that phase, and want something that the crowd will pass and the few pause before.

Sometimes, take a moment and ponder; yes, take a moment and stir your life just as you stir that delicious stew! Taste it to know how delicious or the otherwise it is! And if there be a need for a change, be swift and tactical.