“The wind, one brilliant day, calledto my soul with an odor of jasmine."In return for the odor of my jasmine,I'd like all the odor of your roses.""I have no roses; all the flowersin my garden are dead.""Well then, I'll take the withered petalsand the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?”

“My nostrils smell, but not to you. Oh, they have no odor, unless you count the scent of nostalgia, which is what they always smell like.”

“No self-respecting cat wants to have its subtle personal odor masked by overtones of lavender or rose petals.”

“I am poor, but I am rich. I have my children, I have a garden with roses, and I have my faith and the memories of those who have gone before me. What more is there?”

“Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. The odors of fruits waft me to my southern home, to my childhood frolics in the peach orchard. Other odors, instantaneous and fleeting, cause my heart to dilate joyously or contract with remembered grief. Even as I think of smells, my nose is full of scents that start awake sweet memories of summers gone and ripening fields far away.”

“After all, my uniform still had the distinct odor of Nasty Pond.”