“A scent that disturbs me and delights me. It smells like ripe pears, vetiver, a bit of violet and something else- something spicy almost biting and exotic.”

“She smiles and snuggles into me as we wait for our table. I inhale her scent. Vanilla and something else. Something different. Smokey almost. Sexy. It drives me crazy with need and I have to move away while I can.”

“I feel my brains, like a pear, to see if it's ripe; it will be exquisite by September.”

“At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.”

“Can you never like things without clutching them as if you wanted topull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bit more restraint, orreserve, or something?"She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowly to stroke herlips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as she smelled it, was somuch kinder than he; it almost made her cry.”

“The novels, travel books and poems I read had a particular smell. The smell of cellars. An almost spicy smell, a mixture of dust and grease. Verdigris. Books today don't have a smell. They don't even smell of print.”