Quotes About Scent

Granny Ditto always referred to perfume as 'smell good' and for me it's an essential. I have a sweetheart who's extremely allergic to most scents, so I have to be extra careful - as well as creative - in the smell department. The key, I've found, are essential oils, which come in all kinds of 100% natural scents.

She lowered her arms but didn't move out of his embrace. He should let go, back away, but her eyes were very wide and very blue. He slipped into them, bending his head toward hers, catching the scent of vanilla that whispered of fresh-baked cookies, a loving family, the home he'd never known.

If you train your explosive dog using a half-ounce target scent, it will miss one pound of the same material because the scent pictures of a half ounce and a pound are different. For humans the scent is the same -a bit stronger or weaker- but for the dog it is the difference between making a detection and not. You need to plan for this and reinforce using targets of different sizes and weights.

He smelled more powerfully like himself now that he was dead than he had when he was alive.

It still had that wonderful smell that old churches have: part damp, part old hymn books, and the lingering scent of burned-out candles.

There might be symphonies of perfume, Mozarts of musk. Novelists might construct nasal narratives, versifiers sonnets of scent. Sculpture would entail subtleties of shape that only fingers trained through hundreds of millions of years of tactile evolution could discriminate.

The scent retrieves all kinds of things he once knew and reminds him of all those things he never will.

He'd gone from sixteen to seventy-five in a matter of seconds, but the old-man smell happened instantly, like boom. Congratulations! You stink!

I don't care what your nose says! The last time you smelled half-blood, it turned out to be a meatloaf sandwich! Meatloaf sandwiches are good! But this is a half-blood scent, I swear. They are on board! Bah, your brain isn't on board!

I smelled barbecue before I reached the house, and that made me madder than ever, because I really love barbecue.

Her perfume was a mixture of roses and tear gas.

The river this morning was brown and sluggish with a never-ending flotilla of barges and boats, the commerce of the city. No lilacs here. No scent of a hay meadow or of a stand of lime trees, only the stink of a noxious city. Frobisher felt his soul shrivel.

But when you split someone's head open it smelled like an abattoir and quite overpowered the scent of the wild lilacs you'd cut and brought into the house only this morning, which was already in another life.

L'Air du Temps

We'll smell of fish forever," I said. "That would be nice.

Smells are custodians of memories.

You see, nothing is more immediate, more complete than the sense of smell. In an instant, it has the power to transport you. Your olfactory sense connects not to the memory itself, but to the emotion you felt when that memory was made. To recreate a scent memory is one of the most challenging, eloquent pursuits possible. It's poetry, in its most immediate form.

The world is defined by smells – not words or shapes or sounds. This is the language that makes sense, that everyone understands.

She did not want to say good-bye. She did not want to utter those two dead-sounding words. She turned to look at her taiga. It's never good-bye, Edme, said Winks. It's merely slaan boladh. Slaan boladh? Edme repeated. Old wolf for 'until the next scent post.' Slaan boladh, Edme murmured, and turned and left the taiga to sleep.

A progress memo had said things like "Working on getting the Enwrights flown up. Their unique skills could be helpful in this search" and "A scent tracker would be a huge benefit. Would love to hire a ww on contract but company policy forbids. Meeting with Josef Nast today to discuss." Call me crazy, but I was going to bet the Enwrights' unique skills weren't an astounding ability to read wilderness signs.

At the top of the staircase is a wooden door with a silver keyhole. The dreams pour steadily through the keyhole, and under the bottom of the door, and when you open it, the sweet stink and cloud of dreams are so thick in the Princess's bedroom that you can barely breathe. Some people might mistake the scent of the Princess's dreams for the scent of sex; then again, some people mistake sex for love.

A bluetick hound bays out there in the fog, running scared and lost because he can't see. No tracks on the ground but the one's he's making, and he sniffs in every direction with his cold red-rubber nose and picks up no scent but his own fear, fear burning down into him like steam.

A very ancient and fish-like smell.

Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination.