Quotes About Fragrance

opening the book, i inhaled. the smell of old books, so sharp, so dry you can taste it.

a single lupine exhalation could reduce it to rubble.

She smelled of freshness and gunpowder, sweetness and fire.

How indescribable the scent of autumn flowers was– barely a scent at all, really; just a faint, strange smell, pleasant but sad. Could a smell be sad or was it just the association with the dying summer?

How language is webbed in the senses. Out of sand-blazed brilliance into quirky minds such as his, into touch, taste and fragrance. He thought he'd linger just a bit longer, let the bath take total hold, ease and alleviate, before he put on clothes and entered the complex boxes where people do their living. Nothing fits the body so well as water.

a half million books, all of them smelling like dust and ink, two terrible smells that blend mystically to make something beautiful.

She was still a girl, a slight lovely girl who lay in bed and ate chocolates, a girl whose hair smelled like hyacinth and whose white scarves fluttered jauntily in the breeze;

Ils s'en vont, ils emportent ta naissance, ton nom et ton enfance, les secrets, les rires les chansons qui grésillent sur les postes de radio, l'odeur du café et de la coriandre, l'odeur des marchés et des chèvres, l'odeur de la vie. Ils s'en vont, ils te quittent.»

The globally acclaimed author of Fully Human, Fully Alive: A New Life through a New Vision, John Powell, estimates that an average person taps only 10 percent of his potential, sees only 10 percent of the beauty that is all around him, hears only 10 percent of its music and poetry, smells only 10 percent of its fragrance, and tastes only 10 percent of the deliciousness of being alive.

You want to know a secret?" I asked. "Sure," she said halfheartedly. "I love to sniff the insides of books," I said in a whisper. "Because each book has its own special perfume.

I hate to say this, but I'll repeat it: After death, all we know that you do is stink.

In Tennessee, honeysuckle vines bloomed thick and full in our yard every summer. My brother and I ran out in the early hours, barefooted and still in pajamas to suck the sweetness from the bright flowers. It was never enough. That faint hint of honeysuckle on the tongue an almost broken promise of something better hidden somewhere deeper.

Wildflowers after rain the heart breaks open and little bright seeds fall out.

Did you ever consider the difference between a real flower and a wax imitation? The latter may be quite as beautiful. It may deceive you at first. And yet when you discover the deception you are disappointed. "The lack of fragrance," Jennie suggests. No! the flower may be odorless. It is the lack of life. I do not know what there is in that mystic life that should make such a difference. But I am sure that the charm of the flower is in its life.

reprieve of roses!

Yours is... il sent comme lavande." Is that French for 'You stink'?" It means 'lavender'." Huh." She sniffed at her wrist. "I thought I smelled more like a grape Popsicle.

I picture myself standing between two boxes. From one the stench is unbearably brutal, bellowing out dark wisps of death. And the other box is full of white lilies. Their angelic blooms are fully stretched and sending out perfume, sweet and pure. A box of bitterness. A box of grace.

We must carry with us the sweet aroma of knowing Jesus everywhere we go.

I could smell his scent; a mixture of amber, honey and apples mixed with his own skin's oils and the brisk winter air. Something deep inside me responded to the fragrance. I felt as if I could lose myself in it. Wrap it around me like a cashmere shawl & be forever warmed.

But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection. —MARCEL PROUST, REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST

A garden did not need people in order to be alive and natural. The flowers might have died, and the last leaves might be falling, but the space was still redolent with the odors of life. It contained a thousand reassurances that no matter what one person's strife, the seasons continued their cycle.

Everyone knew how they dripped with perfume, were corrupt from soft living.

Se ausentaba a la última hora de la noche o a primera hora de la mañana, cuando todos dormían en palacio, y regresaba con las mejillas enrojecidas y oliendo a mar.